


Let Me Sharpen Your Arrows to Pierce My Heart

by ZephyrOfAllTrades



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Archer Crowley, Ash is Aziraphale, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Blacksmith Aziraphale, Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), I'm taking liberties with the fantasy thing, Light Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Witches, because I have no time for research, because history always did that, but historically inacurate, but we're BAMFing them up, doing very vague magic, flashbacks of traumatic events, he gets to be a character on his own, mentions of maltreatment of women, the snake is not Crowley, we'll get to that in a mo'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 93,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22587475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZephyrOfAllTrades/pseuds/ZephyrOfAllTrades
Summary: Ash had gotten better with his craft. And he's bringing in money for his lord. But it wasn't enough to buy his freedom, he sees it's the opposite. So needed to flee - to find a real home and to protect a secret he's certain he won't be able to hide anymore. He meets nuns, witches, bandits, and a red-headed Hunter whose charms posed the greatest battle yet.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 108
Kudos: 77





	1. The Blacksmith

**Author's Note:**

> There is in fact a story here. I'm just getting it together. But I got a thing going. I think. If my hesitation didn't put you off, then please enjoy my modest offering.

The coals were smoldering in the furnace in the corner. A lone youth was sweeping the remaining wood chips and iron flints as the late afternoon light dwindles towards the far horizon. The figure’s ochre shirt and short white-blonde curls were dusted with a layer of dull yellow as he stands to rest by the forge to warm himself against the last breezy whispers of spring. His face looked calm but his hands were trembling. He looked around the smithy noting what else should be done before… He heard boots outside the cottage and tightens his grip on the broom.

  
“Ash, have you finished?” The voice boomed preceding the crash of the cottage door. Ash tightened his hold on the broom and closed his eyes from the noise. Lord Gabriel –resplendent in a purple tunic, the color meant for royals, of which he was not – crowded the door. His face ticking in annoyance. He glared at the youth, as intimidatingly as he could. He was muscled, chiseled to the ideal masculine shape, in contrast to Ash’s wide chest, hips and stomach. The intimidation hit.

  
“Y-yes, sir,” the young man squeaked. He cleared his throat to add a calmer, “It’s on the workshop table.” He quickly lit a candle to bring towards where the said table resided, it ran the length of the small room. On its right side were casts, tongs, clamps, hammers, leather straps, a whetstone and all the other tools a metalsmith required. On the left, a cacophony of arrowheads, horseshoes, small knives and daggers. But at its center, a small place was cleared to display a sheathed sword. It was long and its leather scabbard inlaid with golden vines. The sword’s hilt a mesh of interlocking gold and iron and at its tip, a large ruby. The ruby was a last-minute addition, where the lord’s steward had kept a watchful eye on him to ensure the stone was not chipped or pocketed.

  
Gabriel moved to inspect the sword. “Good. Its recipient shall be at court tomorrow,” he said brusquely. "I just hope it makes more money than the last one,” he laughed with false cheer. “You still have rent to pay and your father’s debts.”

  
Ash takes a fortifying breath. If he was allowed, he could leave Gabriel’s village and head towards the larger towns to market off his goods. He would get fair prices for his wares. The lord may berate his inadequacy with the profession but from the way Lord Gabriel eyed his crafts, it told him that he could at least get a price worth his freedom. But even if the quality of the weapons were not well received, daggers, arrows and knives were in great demand – or so he heard from the wandering peasants – as unrest lingered at the Kingdom’s edges. The Queen had exiled herself. Illness, they speculated. And the court a riot – the nobles scrabbling among themselves, vying for the crown. Soldiers at the ready. Supplies in great need.

  
“I do not to falter on your requests, my lord, unlike before...,” he tapered off, then cleared his throat. Gabriel and his steward were not know for their patience, or kindness, if even they were capable. Ash’s father had tended the smithy even during his ailing days. Ash had helped where he could, until only he was left to tend the fires. He would not have mastered the craft if his father had found a different apprentice, but that had meant that some other poor youth would have had to live nearer to Gabriel. He had insisted that he take it up to be able to help more and with his father’s deteriorating health, he was in no position to scorn ready hands. “Surely I’m nearing my mark?” he asked hopefully. He was not bound to the lord besides the financial obligations (and the tall, guarded gates of the keep) thrown at him when his parents died. He knew he had paid up for more than double the amount based on Gabriel’s increasing wealth. It had only taken Ash three miserable years in his smithy for Gabriel to purchase and keep six great stallions, fine quality boots, a golden-gilded carriage, and yards upon yards of the same purple cloth the color of which seeped into his once light-brown eyes, tainting them through sheer exposure.

  
“Ha! Far from it, sunshine.” Gabriel strode towards him, giving his shoulder what looked like reassuring pats, but their exact opposite. The last lingered a little forcefully, possessively. It was tell-tale signs like that that gave Ash the idea that he was being kept from his freedom. He tried to keep his body from recoiling from the contact. Gabriel pulls the weapon closer to the dying firelight, unsheathing the blade. The metal reflected the color of the low-lying flames, glinting at the sharpened edges towards the tip as Gabriel turned it for inspection. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of appreciation, he had never given praise when it was due. He had never approved of Ash’s finished works, giving him the impression that they were all just barely passable.

  
Yet Gabriel had him make more. Demands for more. The level of intricacy on some, bordering on almost impossible. Any form of disobedience or rebelliousness earned him pain. Not from whips nor from blades. But from chains left to burn in the embers and wrapped around his calves, leaving impressions of his servitude. He asked the keep’s cobbler to fashion him knee-high boots to keep the marks hidden. He’s gotten three coils so far. The first two from failing to do what he was told, the third from Gabriel’s steward on one of his drunken episodes.

  
“This will do for now, nothing like your father’s, of course” he turned another nasty sneer towards Ash. “You’re barely reaching his level. Hopefully the Duke that asked for this would not notice. He had been very insistent on making the hilt and scabbard presentable. I always said it’s the blade that matters, but if he likes it, then perhaps you’d have enough to pay part of your family’s debt, after taking away your rent for the room and your meals, and the supplies...,” he trailed off. Gabriel’s smiles were never warm, and as he turned towards Ash, it chilled his spine and he had to hold on to the table with his free hand. He knows he’d barely receive the few coins he rightfully earned for his troubles.

  
“But,” he’d had five years, five horribly long years. The connected village was modest when Ash's family moved in. It had no real tradable assets. All the serfs were giving what they could to their lord, but recently Gabriel had been flouncing wealth not many understand the origins of. Purple was his obsession. So were his snow-white steeds. And after mastering gold working and filigrees, Gabriel ordered production of as many jewelry as he could manage. Surely, he had raised enough to leave Gabriel.

  
“I’ll tell you when you get to the halfway mark,” apparently not. Gabriel slid the weapon back into its scabbard and moved to leave. By the door, he called back. “I’m sure to find more work for you when I get back.

__________

Ash waited until Gabriel’s party left to deliver the weapon to its intended buyer. He was to attend a party where he’d probably flaunt it first, before giving it over to its supposed owner. He shuddered and waited for the last hoof-beat to die in the fog before taking his pack and cloak beneath a floorboard. The pack held a few days’ worth of clothing, a book, some coins and a few more jewelry pieces he had assembled from scrap. He was hopeful to sell them in the next town over. He then hid a dagger in each of his boots (he put in the straps himself). Those were also from scrapped metal he was able to hide and mold (for no matter his hatred, he was fair and knew the supplies were Gabriel's). They were as long as his forearm and made them as sharp as he could. He was unsure of where he would end up, but the least he could do to take care of himself was to keep weapons.

  
He was told to stay. But he never could. He had drawn it out for much longer than he should have. It would only be a matter of time before they'd find him out. And the thought of the chain marks over his calves that were decidedly moving farther up along his body was enough to make him feel sick. It was early morning, still too dark, but it would be enough of a cover and by the time he reached the edge of the nearby woods, the sun would be out in a few more hours. He’d be safer on his journey.

He had the key to the eastern wall's gate on a leather string around his neck. It was by some a miracle that the key was in need of a new handle the week before. He had made a mold for it, and then created a duplicate. The next thing he had to do though, was sneak over to the it without interruption. He went through the back of the smithy, skirting the sputtering lamp lights around the courtyard. He plastered himself to the walls and the shadows. He managed his footfalls to be as silent as he could. He didn’t have far to go but his anxiety made him feel like he was shuffling in the space of six thousand years. When he did reach the gate, he was mortified with how loud the lock clanged open. It was almost too much to bear as he skittishly surveyed the empty causeways. He did not sigh, not ever dared himself to breath properly as he slithered out. He quickly strode over the little vegetable garden, just outside the walls then swiftly crossed to the nearby trees. Only after reaching its shadows did he look back.

  
There was no one to see him off. Not that he didn’t have friends. The village had taken them in ever since they came, but he was a solitary creature, becoming more so after dragged to be Gabriel'd personal blacksmith. Besides helping his parents, he had taken his book out to thumb its yellowing pages. It was safer that way. At least he did not need to say goodbyes. Anyone caught lying as to where he went would surely face Gabriel’s whip. He hefted his pack higher on his shoulders and trudged through the dead leaves and roots towards the next village.


	2. A Fang to Give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of attempted rape and death.
> 
> (I'm not good with action scenes, and the gory parts might not be as explicit as they are in my head, but I couldn't just blink them away.)
> 
> And I don't have beta's, so there may be a few (or a lot) of typos. I hope you won't mind!

The first settlement Ash came across was bustling with merchants for the start of summer festival. Too many people, too early to show himself, he figured. He was still anxious. It had been two days since his escape, and he barely slept, taking stuttered naps in between. He knew Gabriel’s men would be looking for him. He couldn't risk it. He skirted the main thoroughfare leading to the many tents at the edge of the village and ducked into the field paths where there were lesser people. His march was cut off by a lazily flowing river gurgling softly and gleaming with summer sunshine. A gulp from its cool waters gave him pause. He let a cool breeze tickle his bare head. Spring had done its course leaving summer shyly taking the reins. He allowed himself a peaceful reflection at how the world was blooming around him – trees stretching their leafed boughs to catch the most sun, flowers wild and loud in color, and the grass stretched to carpet the earth.

He followed the river going downstream, its gurgles soothed him and the long bouts of exercise made him thirsty. And it was late afternoon when he came across the next cluster of houses. It was smaller than the first one and he was wondering whether he should pass it by again when his stomach growled at him. It was his third day of feeding himself with wild berries and the occasional fruit. Ash ran his fingers through his hair and thought it best to stock on supplies mainly a loaf or two to keep his energy up. He needed a few coins to start him off so he cautiously slipped into the meadow adjacent to the village where he found smaller the tents, more for the sake of spreading some festive cheer rather than for trade. Ash kept his hood up to hide his rather impressionable hair and drifted between the stalls. He found a modest little set-up selling bangles, rings and the occasional jeweled knife.

“See anything you like, lad?” The older man manning the table looked him over. It would have thought it rude, but he understood the risks a stranger brought along. He looked back with as honest a gaze he could. The man hummed and gave him a small smile. He smiled back.

“I'm more into looking for somewhere to sell actually,” he said shyly.

“Oh? Well,” he scratched his chin. “Seeing as you chose my tent, I'm guessing a blade or two or some jewelry. But I don't take stolen wares,” he gave a pointed glare. Ash didn't even flinch.

“I'd never, sir. I made them myself from scratch,” Ash said confidently. “I was a blacksmith's apprentice,” _b_ _efore I became one myself,_ he added in his head. He was a very bad liar. He'd been thinking of a good alibi to hide his identity just in case any one came asking but he decided that being nearer to the truth would sound more believable. "But I'm on my way to visit relatives for a while." _I wish_ , he thought bitterly. “And I ate the last of my bread before entering this part of the village.”

“Ah, you’ll be needing grub. Can’t have a young lad like you starving,” the man grinned up at him, eyes flicking momentarily over his plump physique. Ash could only blush. “Let's see them, then.” Ash fished out two of the three bracelets he had in his pack and handed them over, unsure of its reception. Gabriel's words coming back to him, his confidence wavered. Whatever he told himself back at his old smithy seemed laughable now that he was faced with someone who could give him actual value for his work.

“You made these yourself?” the older man asked. “They look decent, needs a little more buffing. And you say it was scrap?"

"Yes, uhm...I couldn't really afford materials for it. I took whatever metal was lying on the floor," Ash knew there were a lot of imperfections. "They don't really look clean, but I thought they look nice anyway," he finished lamely.

"All those different metals make the whorls. Perhaps not good for weaponry but you're right. They make the bracelets unique. I've seen the design from exotic traders. Pretty pieces call in women with copper to spare or their lovers. Overall, they'll fetch a nice price,” the man kept glancing at Ash while he inspected the bracelets noting his face turn incredulous, then shy. He blushed a bright red and could only mutter a thank you, not used to compliments on his work.

“Here,” he threw a small purse over to Ash, the sound and weight alerting him that it was more than what he had anticipated to get. “There's a bakery just past that post over there,” he waved his hand, while settling the bracelets amongst his own pieces. “But, if you'd like you can come have dinner with me and my wife. The sun is setting and we live farther down than the rest. None’ll bother you there.” It was an odd comment but Ash nodded. Home-cooked food was not to be shunned and a look at the bakery told him it was already closed.

The man quickly pulled his goods into a bag and stood. “Come along,” he said not unkindly.

They made their way towards the edge of the farm lands where there were more trees, and followed a dirt path shaded by birch trees on either side. “You may call me Tom while you stay with us.”

“Oh. I-“

“No," Tom cut him off. "You don’t need to tell me your name. And I think it’s best we keep it that way.” He gave him a knowing style. “Maybe when we meet again, you may tell me your story.”

“T-Thank you.” Ash had nothing else to say. It was simpler that way. Though he wanted to be polite and introduce himself, he knew he can’t give his name away lest Gabriel’s men came along.

“They say that the southern mountains can offer peace of mind to some. You are not the first, and will not be the last to go there.” Tom had seen too many people running south. People looking for peace. He'd met them walking by their home. He felt their frantic energies. They all felt like they were being pulled there. The young stranger was the same, although he may not know it. And he knew they were running away from mortifying past lives. Tom glanced at the young boy. He looked soft, but he knew there were scars there somewhere. He needed a good meal and somewhere to properly sleep, judging by the shadows under his eyes.

“I don’t really know where I’ll end up,” Ash chuckled. “So long as it’s not back whe-“

“Argh! Not again!” Ash jumped. Without a second thought, he ran towards the edge of the road where the distressed voice came from, followed by Tom.

Ash peaked past the shrubbery to find a boy, about nine, hopping about with one foot clasped in his hands. Firewood scattered about. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, uhm. Yes.” The boy stopped his dance and set his foot gingerly back on the ground. “Well, no, not really. My foot hit this stupid rock,” he nudged the offending thing then sighed. “And now I have to pick all this stuff back up,” he pouted.

“I'll give you a hand,” Ash offered immediately, pushing past leaves and brambles.

“Really?” he grinned then blanched as Tom strode towards them. “A-actually I think I’m alright…” he cleared his throat. “I don’t want to bother a stranger by letting them help me with my chores,” he intoned as he bundled the firewood back into his arms. Undeterred, Ash took the nearest sticks and set them into the boy’s arms.

Tom sighed and Ash looked back to find him bending down to help.

“You’ve certainly taken your time, Jack.” The boy flinched slightly.

“Sorry dad,” Ash blinked in surprise but wisely said nothing. “But I found more berries by the river’s edge and...”

“It’s almost dark and you know your mother will worry.” They finished picking up the firewood and knowing that they’ll be going the same way, Ash hefted his own pile to make sure Jack would be able to see where he was walking. The boy looked at his father askance, but as the man did not comment, he let out a breath of relief.

They walked towards a cottage a little ways into the wooded area, plants growing wilder with each step. By the door they were met by a petite woman, a little shorter than Ash. Tom introduced her as Dorothy. The woman did not ask for Ash's name, having the same understanding as her husband. She simply smiled at him and told him to make himself at home. Jack set the table and she brought out four loaves of bread and took the pot from the fire unto the table. The stew in it was still bubbling and Ash was straining to not drool in front of his hosts. The stew was ladled into bowls and passed about. It had been so long since he had warm food and was glad Dorothy gave him another helping even before he finished the first. Jack kept up a commentary on the creatures he found in the woods and the many berries and fruits he found, filling what would still have been comfortable silence.

“I told you not to keep wandering around those parts,” Dorothy frowned. “I'm not hiding you from the soldiers to have you fall in some unknown burrow.”

“Sorry, mum. I swear stayed by the river so I could come back easy.”

“Still irresponsible of you, you know,” frowning but ladling more of the stew into her son’s bowl.

“Do the soldiers come around a lot?” Ash fretted. He'd be dragged back to Gabriel before the week ends if he’s been reported.

“I'm afraid so. They've been recruiting. It's this stupid war, they kept asking for ‘young and able-bodied men and boys to help the cause.’” Tom groused. “Those are their words. More like they need more cannon fodder. You best stay hidden, too. They won't let you say no.”

Ash gave a nod and opened his mouth to reply when he heard hoofbeats. He tensed, reeling from the sound. Tom gripped his elbow, concerned. Then bristled himself as he heard the horses coming closer. He swiftly took hold of him and grabbed Jack's wrist shoving them to the corner by the door, Dorothy already pushing aside a pile of rushes that revealed a small wooden hatch.

Tom pushed it open and pushed both boys to get into the underground hideout. Jack swung himself in deftly and helped Ash get proper footing on a ladder propped right at the opening. The urgency of the moment kept him silent. He heard the table being cleared quickly and the rushes set to hide them again. He climbed the ladder slowly noting that the hole was much bigger and deeper than he had imagined and as soon as he got to the lowest point, the sounds from above became decidedly muffled.

They had just settled when the door flew open, banging against the wall. They huddled close and kept their breathing slow and as quiet as they could. They could hear voices but couldn’t make out the words. They could hear the soldier’s laughter and unsteady footsteps. Then silence for a minute or two followed by thuds and scraping along the floor boards.

“Something’s wrong,” Jack whispered, who was used to the routine. Before Ash could ask they heard Dorothy's screams and both boys jumped towards the ladder, Ash first followed by Jack to peep through the floor. They could just make out a man, definitely in soldier’s livery, laughing as he twisted Tom’s arms behind him and pushing him down on the table.

“Don't hurt him!”

“We need money or more metal to make a decent armor, not those trinkets,” another soldier spat.

“But you already took what iron we had. And we could still sell those trinkets, they could get us money! If you hurt him, how else will we be able to earn enough to give to you!” Dorothy’s voice was rising as she watched Tom hold in his own agony. The second soldier keeping her from running to help her husband.

“You know, there are other ways to pay,” the voice was low and slurred but Ash heard every word. He felt his blood turn to ice but his heart was pounding with a fire that blazed with every second he was away from where he was most needed.

They saw the man cornering Dorothy and heard Tom, anguished and helpless, cried, "Don't touch her! Keep away from her!"

Ash pushed the hatch open and jumped out, sliding one of his daggers from his boot as he stood. He saw Dorothy’s attacker pinning her on the wall scrabbling at her skirts, too distracted to hear Ash’s entrance. The other, though did notice him and was too surprised to move. Ash pounced forward and took one good stab at the man's shoulder, the dagger going straight out the other end, and pulled him away from the table and his host. In another quick motion he pulled the now bloodied blade and tossed it on the table to be snatched by the unrestrained Tom pushing himself to get to his wife.

Ash had never killed but had held many blades and knew them well enough to know how to use them. He didn’t want blood on his hands if he could help it. But looking at the scowling soldier before him, arm limp with a dark red staining his tunic rapidly, he understood that there are those who do not deserve mercy and are destined for Hell. He regretted not aiming for his heart. Instead, with another wave of justified wrath, Ash sent his fist to the scowling man’s head after willing every muscle in his arm to be stronger than when he hefted his largest hammer. Jack had jumped out of their hiding place as well and gave a tremendous kick towards the man's groin making him buckle instantly to the ground, blood loss and pain rendering him unconscious.

Both then turned to watch Tom holding the dagger against the other soldier's sword. Dorothy, using her ripped clothing to strangle the man. Tom pushed the sword away to bring the dagger's point through the soldier's chest who, with a last constricted yell, fell dead.

Jack was trembling. Out of instinct Ash pulled him closer, patting his head, also shaken by the scene but feeling relieved nonetheless. The child folding willingly into the embrace. It was either the shock from watching his parents suffer or that of watching them kill a man that made the boy burst into tears in his arms. He wasn't the only one crying though, as Dorothy grabbed her husband’s tunic and buried her face there. The whole hut was silent punctuated by the errant wet sob and sniff. Slowly though, they came back to the pressing matter of one dead and one dying soldier in their home.

"We can't stay for long." Tom pulled back from Dorothy, eyes sweeping the cottage, voice firm. "We'll go back North. What happened tonight will be known in the morning. Best we go tonight.” Mother and son agreed.

__________

They stood outside, a slip of a moon peering out from drifting clouds, with all the luggage they could carry. Ash had his own pack, secured behind him. He was back in his cloak ready to leave, but he had one more thing to do.

“Here,” he handed Tom his dagger. He had pulled it from the soldier’s chest and wiped it on the dead man’s cloths before removing its sheath from his boot and sliding the blade home. “You might need it.” They did not take the knight’s sword. It was too bulky to hide and a weapon like that, especially in times of war, always attracted attention.

“You keep it. There are three of us, and just one of you.” Tom frowned. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”

Ash shoved the dagger into the older man’s hands as he shook his head. To stifle any other protests, he lifted his cloak to show the other dagger. “I have another. It is enough for me. And I hope that is enough for you.” His gaze found Dorothy and Jack strapping their things onto the abandoned horses. They would escape faster that way. They offered him the other horse but he vehemently refused. “You need it more than I,” he repeated. Tom looked at his own family.

“Thank you, for helping us. More than you should have.”

“Don’t thank me,” Ash gave a shaky smile. “I feel as though I brought you bad luck.”

“Nonsense!” Dorothy exclaimed as she came to say her goodbyes. “They would have done it still. It was only a matter of time. And it would have been us on the floor bleeding, with no one left for Jack. You were heaven-sent. Staying the night when we needed you the most.”

“Still–“

“You’re not a bad person,” Jack chimed in. “You wouldn’t have given a good enough hug if you were.” Grinning, he ran to give him another hug. Ash choked on unshed tears as he squeezed the boy back.

Tom gave his shoulder a firm grip and Dorothy patted his hand. “You have our blessing,” Tom gestured to encompass his whole family. “For safe travels. And to find your real family.” He smiled and Ash thanked them with his own wishes for their safety. He was feeling a warmth he had missed for so long but knew that he might not get to feel again so he scurried into the woods before he make a fool of himself, waving back one last time as the others prepared to ride.

__________

Somewhere beneath the brambles, golden eyes watched. And when Ash slid into the darkness, they followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, this whole thing was not supposed to have been a chapter. It was supposed to be a three-paragraph transition. But OCs burst into my bedroom door to demand to be put in. Not my fault. Now the chapters are whacked. I reverted the chapter count to '?' But it probably won't exceed 30 (if the characters behave). I just don't want to keep changing the count just in case and confuse people.
> 
> It took a little longer to write this because it wasn't originally planned. But here it is, anyway. These OCs will be making a comeback. The story is still going somewhere, I promise.


	3. Braying Wolves are Better than Clattering Hooves

Ash wandered the whole night and by the next afternoon, he felt too tired to continue. He stopped to search for some place to camp as the sun started to set. He had hoped that the night before would have him under a roof to recharge properly. But fate had him back in the wilderness.

He mulled over his options. Tom had said something about the south. He knew he’ll find the sea there. His mother had told him long ago. But he didn’t know anything else about the place. He did know, however, that he had to go through the wilder edges of the woods that carpeted the mountains’ feet. He cast his eyes to the distant jagged tips of the Southern Ridges, glowing rosy in the fading light. He would get there somehow. But for the time being he ought to keep by the river.

It was the same one Jack had adventured in. He found it some distance away from the road. It was smaller than the one he followed before meeting Tom and his family. Blackberry bushes scattered on either side, heavy with steadily ripening fruit. He had already gathered choice ones to nibble on while he walked. The stream of water ran over smooth stones, sliding to go around larger ones, then trickling over to the riverbank to kiss the slender stalks of rushes that sprouted here and there.

Water had always fascinated him. He loved the sounds they make, their coolness, the crystals of ice they turn into in winter and how they make light dance. And he admired how running water can weather something down through gentle and slow touches. It was a strength not many people acknowledge. But he understood its intricacies. Water calmed him, and he loved the sensation of water against his bare skin. He took a bath twice a day if he could. His parents attributed the activity to him being near roaring flames, soot and flour all day. Ash conceded to it being one of the reasons. The villagers on the other hand, who couldn’t even conceive of the idea of bathing at least _once_ a day, added it to his many quirks and left him alone.

He even loved rain, listening to the pitter patter of raindrops and was fascinated at how graceful the beads trail down the veins of a leaf falling to the waiting earth. He found storms tolerable. Destructive, yes, but tolerable. Water taught him that gentleness is not a weakness, it is restraint. If slow moving water can reconstruct a landscape within a year, no one can be surprised how storms can flood a settlement into nonexistence in a few hours.

A cool breeze ruffled his hair and brought him back from his musings. His focus was wavering, he needed proper sleep. He sighed as he watched the shadows lengthening, scanning the area for someplace to settle down for the night. He didn’t dare light a torch fearing it would give his position away. He settled himself with the little moonlight there was. A shifting shadow and a glint of gold caught his eye. He padded over fallen leaves trying to be as silent as he could. It had looked like a small animal, running back to its burrow. He hoped it could share. (Staking his survival on a critter was tantamount proof of his sleep deprived brain.) To his delight, though, the animal led him to a small willow tree behind a fallen oak. Its gnarled roots created a little cave of sorts, its leaves shielded the space from the night air.

What Ash thought as an animal’s hidey hole was bigger than first glance. The entrance was big enough to squeeze through but it was dark and the creature he followed was nowhere to be found. He couldn’t hear any rustling from inside. Ash let his eyes adjust to the darkness before taking a peek. Inside, he could see lines carving the sides. It looked as if it had held water. He figured the river would swell to reach the willow during the rainy months and swirl underneath the already exposed roots. He crouched by the entrance and called out in a low voice talking to whatever else was inside and even asking permission to enter. No reply came, as he had expected. He simply wanted to be polite and let his presence be known before wriggling himself in.

The ground dipped down at a gentle slope. The waterless pool was shallow enough for him to not feel buried alive but deep enough to sit up. He found he could lay completely stretched in it. The ground was miraculously dry. He quickly threw his cloak and pack on the ground and settled himself for his nap. He had been seeing bloodied bodies when he closed his eyes for longer periods of time when he tried napping but, either the shock had finally dissipated from his system or that he was then too tired to care, the moment his head hit his makeshift pillow, he was asleep immediately.

__________

In a corner of Ash’s makeshift shelter, just a hands-breadth away from the entrance, was a hole. It was big enough for an arm to go through. This was where the small animal hid. It did hear Ash, and it let him enter, curious despite itself. The something inside, uncoiled and poked a tongue out – forked and pink. Golden snake eyes rising from the ground to fix its gaze on the sleeping figure but made no other move. Another flick of the tongue before it relaxed back into its den.

Should Ash been awake that moment and peered into where the snake retreated, he would only have seen a flame, licking the sides within but dulling as the seconds pass. As it was, when Ash woke, he saw none of the subdued fire nor the snake in the hole by the entrance.

__________

It was midnight when Ash startled awake. He could hear wolves howling in the distance, but he didn’t think it was that danger that had his heart pumping furiously. He huffed in annoyance as he tried to reign the panic down. He listened a little more to the eerie notes fading in the distance and tried to settle back for more sleep, but couldn’t. To think that now he had someplace pleasant to sleep in, he couldn’t. He groaned and sat up in the small space, head falling on bent knees.

He heard thunder and looked up at the tangled roots wondering if they could hold off rain. He wondered if the pool would fill. The thunder got louder, more insistent. He frowned. There was no lightning. The sky, from what he could see of it, through a gap in the roots, looked clear. He could hear the noise louder now. He gulped. It wasn’t thunder. Ash froze. He curled in on himself, willing himself to melt into the dark, trying to reel images of the past away. He chided himself. He needed to keep his wits about him.

He heard the voices just as the hoof beats stopped ringing in his ears.

“How much farther?” It was a gravelly drawl, one he remembered all too well. The same voice that cooed at him while twisting red-hot chains around his legs. Gabriel's steward. A horse neighed and the clopping stilled, it sounded nearby.

“We can’t go farther from here, sir. The wolves are about. If the blacksmith came this way, he would never make it back out,” a second voice said.

“Wolves, you say?” Ash heard a snicker from the steward. “We can’t have them running around,”

“What are we going to do sir?"

“We’ve been here a while, might as well have fun before we go back,” Ash could see the steward’s malicious grin in his mind’s eye. “Ready your bow and come along.”

Ash didn’t dare breath as he heard footsteps coming closer, then away. He was shaking when he finally let his lungs work. But it was short-lived. His body wanted to run, but he kept still. If they find him, they’ll hunt him down after they were through with the wolves. If he managed to give them the slip, he would be in the mercy of the wolves seeking retaliation after the hostile attack on their pack. If he stayed, what are the odds he’d make it out unscathed? There was only one entrance, he’d be trapped. He couldn’t take the risk of some one or the other of them peeking through the roots and find him.

A wild thought popped into his head. _I could take a horse and ride off while the hunters are busy_. He had ridden a horse just once. When he was younger. But it had been punctuated with screams of agony and tasted of salt from his own tears. His throat felt tight. He went through his pack and took out his book. He didn’t know enough to read the stories and it was too dark to see, but he flipped through pages, the movement of his fingers and the sounds the pages made grounded him.

He felt his heart stutter less frantically and he slipped the book back in his pack with a sigh. Another idea ran around his head. He cautiously popped his head out from his hiding place and seeing the coast clear, searched for the horses. They were tied by the fallen oak. The animals didn’t shy away from him as he approached. They knew him by the many times he changed their shoes. He slipped the saddles off them and hid the things beneath the willow. He then cut their ties. Finding themselves free, they began drifting away of into the trees. _That would be distraction enough_ , he thought to himself before hitching his pack and scurrying down the opposite direction from where he heard the steward and his companion went.

He hadn’t gone far before he heard barks and snarls coming towards him. He never cared for the hunts, he felt that the loss of a living creature’s life purely for pleasure was illaudable. It was torture to make the arrows they used. And perhaps this would be the world's retribution for his part in their pains. He internally accepted whatever came next, finding calm in the face of it all. He told himself he’d rather die through beasts of nature than the tortures the steward had surely readied for him.

The nearby bushes trembled. He expected glowing eyes and foaming mouths. What burst through was a whimpering thing, just bigger than a pup. The growls from the other side of the bushes sped off. He didn’t hear any yelps of pain so he believed the wolves came out unscathed. Except the one before him.

He took careful steps towards the animal, praying for it to stay silent. The wolf was trying to lick its wound. It was a rather deep slice on its shoulder enough to make it limp but not so much to cause it too much pain. Ash crouched to shield himself from the other side of the bushes where he could hear faint voices. The wolf looked up at him, hackles raised, a snarl ready. He stopped his advance and waited. He saw it relaxing as he stayed still. He made no move, but he whispered soothing words to calm the wolf further. He placed his hand, palm to the ground, and slid it towards the animal slowly. It watched him but didn’t look like it would fight him again.

He shuffled closer using his arms and knees until he was a foot away. He could see how the wound cut through the animal’s pelt and muscles, blood matting its fur. It looked as if an arrow had grazed it. A miraculous escape from hunters, but it would never do for it to bleed to death. Ash groaned softly at the tragedy of his life, saving an animal from its predicament when he had just ran away from a man in the same boat. But his heart hardened at the memory of _why_ he had resorted to violence.

“May I?” he asked the creature, palms up. There were no other sounds around them. The hunters probably stomping back to their horses. He wondered how long before they find him. He was suddenly questioning why he stayed to help this beast when he was sure it would tear at him if it was fit enough to do so. His deliberations screeched to a halt when he felt a wet and cold nose bump his fingers. It took all his willpower to not snatch his hand back and startle the wolf.

_It doesn’t matter why. Helping it felt right._ He thought, and smiled as it let him pat its head.

He cooed at it as he took a cloth from his pack to dress the bleeding gash. The animal whimpered and growled up at him. It bit down on his cloak, just grazing his arm, as he secured the binding. But he forgave it. It must have stung. Afterwards he scooted away, letting the animal test its leg. It still limped, but it managed to hobble closer to him.

“Right. You better find your friends before the bad men come back,” he scratched its chin.

__________

Unfortunately, the bad men had already found their horses gone and had lit makeshift torches to scour the woods for them. The steward’s companion had heard the wolf’s growls and had crept over to the sounds, keeping the fire low and his steps quiet. Ash came face to face with him as he stood to start walking again.

“Well, well, well,” the man started. “White hair, bright eyes, a little too kind to be human. It is you. The blacksmith’s son. Master Sandalphon had a fit when he found you gone.”

“Sandalphon?” Ash paled but moved to hide the snarling and injured animal behind him.

“The steward. Lord Gabriel had renamed him to befit his most trusted advisor.”

“Oh, good for him then. He’s doing well,” Ash started walking backwards herding the animal. The man matched his pace moving towards him, keeping him from going too far. Ash was glad the man was holding a torch, otherwise, he’d had had his bow trained on him already.

“He won’t be _doing well_ if Lord Gabriel finds you disappeared,” he raised his voice. He was calling for Sandalphon. Ash bumped into the wolf. Risking a quick glance, he saw brambles behind them. He nudged it to run away. It didn’t. Ash suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Dogs were a little too loyal. Instead, he bent to pick it up, taking care to not jostle the injured leg, while eyeing the steward’s man.

He stood there smirking at him. “Sad we didn’t catch it’s mother. She was a beaut. Master Sandalphon needed a pick me up. Sad to say the beasts were too fast. But your arrow at least tasted blood,” he gestured at the wolf in his arms. Ash held the animal closer to his chest, a silent apology. It was still growling at the hunter. They heard quick footsteps coming from the river’s direction. The hunter glanced back and Ash took his chance, quickly leaping over the brambles and running away as fast as he could.

He heard shouts from behind him and saw torchlight at his heels. He swerved around tree after tree but the men managed to follow him. Panicked, he lost his footing and fell unto the woodland floor. He managed to twist himself to land on his arm, mindful of the wolf he was cradling. He flung it gentle off his chest and scrambled to get himself upright. There was a grunt above him and he felt a kick to his side. He gasped as his muscles spasmed with pain.

“You worthless piece of sh – AAARGGGG!” The man stumbled back, torch dropping between them, barely missing Ash's cloak. He managed to roll off to one side and pushed his body to stand and fight. Fire quickly consumed the dry leaves and low-lying branches, crating a curtain between him and the hunter. He saw the other man clutching his calf batting at it as if it was engulfed in flames only he could see. His face twisted in agony and his wails ringing painfully in Ash’s ears. It was like seeing a soul being tortured in Hell.

Another figure burst from behind a tree, stockier and shorter – the recently christened Sandalphon. He grabbed the flailing hunter’s collar demanding to know what was wrong with him. The man had only let out one final cry before his eyes rolled back against his head and fell limp. Sandalphon threw the useless body aside and before turning a scowl on the rising inferno barring him from his quarry.

Ash had been petrified watching a man die from an invisible attack, he was certain it was an attack, but by what he couldn't imagine. Then all his limbs began moving again as soon as he locked eyes with Sandalphon, the malice clearly etched in his glare. He turned and ran. The last thing he saw was a sneer, golden teeth glinting in the firelight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters are getting longer. Tell me if I blab too much, but the characters have so much backstory that I'm having trouble unpacking them. It's a wonder I still make sense (tell me if I don't, :))
> 
> I’m not making light of PTSD, I have only experienced it mildly. Sorry if my writing can’t convey the seriousness of it. I know it's not a simple thing. So, sorry again.
> 
> Next up: Snek POV.


	4. A Light Dimmed but by No Means Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snek POV, as promised.
> 
> Warning for typos! I reread it but in the early hours of morning where I found my head falling towards my chest more than once. Call them out if you see any so we could edit them. Enjoy! :D

The world had been marvelous in the beginning. Dark had been part of the making of it. Before, it was the only thing there. It had not been anything really. Until the Voice named it. “Dark,” the Voice said. And it suddenly knew what it was. Then the Voice spoke again. “Let there be Light.”

Dark shifted. It had been occupying the whole of space. Something nudged it to make room. Was there space left for something else? Apparently, there was, as it felt an energy that was not its own slide next to it. The energy pulsed. It was bright. It beamed. It flared. _It must be Light_. Dark stayed cool. Its energy didn’t burst like Light. It was more put together than that. But it found itself following Light around. Does Light know how to make conversation? Light likes moving about, can’t stay still, like it was dancing.

The Voice kept saying things. It wasn’t paying attention anymore. It was distracted by Light. It wanted to get closer. Couldn’t. Light was all over the place. It didn’t know where to start. It waited for Light to stop flitting about, which didn’t happen immediately and only got worse when the Voice made something new again.

And there came another shift, and more nudging. The third thing wasn’t like Light. It wasn’t an energy like them. It heard the Voice say it was Earth. Light found new things to play with, and Dark would touch the same things at night, looking for something that Light would like to talk about. It took days before it had its chance.

The Voice had put in Humans and was trying to talk to them. But they were not listening. Or more interestingly, they could not understand the Voice. Dark saw its chance as Light pondered the situation, staying still long enough for its to slither over.

“You know, for a Voice, She actually won’t talk with one. No wonder the humans don’t understand.”

Light startled but replied “Yes, well, I’m going to try to help.” It flitted here and there. Dark watched. Light passed through leaves, bathing the humans in muted greens. It flew over waves, and made wet stones sparkle. It kissed the many cheeks waking napping humans gently. By the by Light came back, pouting.

“They still don’t understand.”

“I think they will, when the right time comes,” Dark said consolingly.

Light nodded and projected a warm smile as thank you. “I hope to be able to witness that.”

As it did, Light did more than witness. The Voice had gathered enough of Light’s energy to form a column that projected the Voice’s reprimand towards the humans. Dark wasn’t aware what had happened, but it knew the humans did something wrong. Later Light would tell it how the humans did something _bad._ “But I think the Voice wasn’t very mad. Sounded like She was resigned to let them go, like She expected them to.” Light had manifested itself into a tight pulsing orb to talk to Dark that night. Just a patch of its baser self so as not to disturb the sleeping animals. They talked well into the morning when this time, it was Dark that coiled itself to let light do its job.

The contact became greater from that time on and so, began their life – moving with each other, circling each other, and merging with one another every dawn and dusk.

Both enjoyed Earth and its humans, and had even taken Earthly forms to go adventuring together. Dark picked a snake’s form, ebony scales with a vermillion underbelly and golden-yellow eyes. Light fancied a snow-white owl, soft feathers and luminescent blue eyes. The snake would wind itself around the owl and the bird would gladly follow its course, twisting its neck as much as its form allowed and cooing at its friend.

Unfortunately, during the few millennia where the humans were left alone, they listened less and less to the Voice. Humans gave themselves kings to follow instead. The Voice tried talking to the kings but again, they could not or would not listen. When the humans kept multiplying, they fought over who would be the best to rule. In an effort to help, the Voice created a Crown. This the Voice used this to endow the selected human powers they could use to create a better world for their fellowmen. It would also best communicate the Voice’s messages. But with the promise for power and authority, the humans scuffled for it. The battles were bloody and completely unnecessary. The Voice grew disappointed and left, taking the Crown’s powers away.

The kingdom felt the loss and the king called for all the witches, druids, magicians, wizards and warlocks to find a replacement of the power the Crown held believing it would keep the kingdom from falling into ruin. The other possible solution they found was using the a powerful Energy to bind to the Crown. They spent years trying to lock either Dark or Light. Every failure frustrated them further, until they finally understood that one may not exist without the other. It took decades and many lives but they ended up locking the both Energy’s essences within the Crown. The kingdom felt the thrum of power leaving them with a sense of balance and they rejoiced. But none understood that the power the crown emitted could not be controlled by any king, unlike before. And oblivious to the fact, the wars began anew.

Nature has a way to adapt, there was still light and dark, but the nights grew less calm, and the days left them reeling for more of the sun’s rays. Within the Crown’s bindings dwelled the essences, grieving for the harsh times and humming satisfactorily for the peaceful ones. It was a prison, but both were thankful that at least they were together. Once in a while the Voice would visit them with assurances that they would be freed one day. They acknowledge that the Voice had a plan. The Voice didn’t say what but they understood that She had one even though it would seem that it would be ineffable.

\----------

Dark had been asleep. It had been sleeping more than it normally did, but it had grown tired of seeing and not _being._ It was an Energy! It was the Dark! Its powers insurmountable! But its friend would say it was being ridiculous. It would counter it was not, and the other say it was. And on the argument goes, until both find a different thing to look at or argue about. It sighed. It had always woken up with its friend.

When it woke, it found itself alone. _Where is Light?_ It opened its mouth to – _A mouth?_ It stilled and let its eyes wander. It discovered that it was inside a physical form. It was a snake. It would have blinked if it could. It had not been a snake for millennia. It didn’t know what happened and reared on its body seeking the skies. Light would know. Light was good at explaining things to it. But it can’t find Light. It could not feel the concentration of power that was its friend.

The snake tried changing back into its baser self, but couldn’t. It was stuck in the physical plane. It stretched and tasted the air the same way it had done long ago. It caught a scent of something familiar. It smelled like its friend but more earthy. Curious, it crawled under bushes, over and in-between roots, letting its tongue guide it. It heard human voices and hid. It was not ready to be killed. It had let it happen once, and would rather not do it again. It won’t die, the cosmos would be furious. Besides, if it couldn’t revert to its baser self, it might not be able to regenerate properly.

It stuck its head out from the base of a tree to get a better view. There were the humans. One very young, one old, and one that looked… _soft_. The snake flicked its tongue out, confused. It had been the soft human’s scent it had been following. Which was very, very odd. It knew what its friend smelled like. It should know, they’d been stuck together for thousands of years.

But the human felt a lot like Light. Brimming with hope, positivity, and love. And petrichor. That was the earthy bit it caught. The snake groaned internally. It was very much confused but slithered closer. _Could Light have been turned human? The same way I was turned into a snake?_

It flicked its tongue and tried smelling the human’s energy. _No_. _They had magic, all their own_. Magic and cosmic energies are a horrible combination. _Been there, done that._ Dark shook its head. _Stupid druid_ knew _what hit him, just didn’t understand how his vessel would react. Quite the explosion._ It shuddered. It took a few years of Light distracting him at some far point in space, talking of inconsequential things while orbiting each other, before it could be convinced to return to Earth. And even then, Light had to hold him in its feathers for days before it came anywhere near another human settlement.

Humans can manipulate energies, but not merge with them. They can siphon or concentrate the powers but that was it. They couldn’t even bind them properly, or control them entirely. But the clever ones did try.

The soft one followed the other two humans to their dwelling. Dark trailed them as well. It needed answers but it couldn’t talk with the human. It stayed just at the edge of the wild underbrush to ponder what it should do next. It watched as the sun set. As the edge of the bright orb touched the earth’s horizon, it felt power thrumming at its side. It perked up, believing that finally it’d be able to get some semblance of being itself again. It watched its red underbelly brighten and its scales shimmer. It tried to change its form but to no avail. It was still a snake. It let out a frustrated hiss.

The shadows were lengthening and Dark was doing its best to stay patient. It could feel energy trickling back into itself but it couldn’t use it. It flopped dejectedly back to the ground, twisting its body a little sideways, eyes trained to the smoke coming from the nearby cottage, lazily coiling into the darkening sky. It turned its eyes back to its physical body and tensed. The red of its underbelly was fading. The color dimming before finally sputtering out as the last of the edge of the setting sun hid from view.

The scales’ starlight shimmer was also falling off, leaving Dark in a pure black body, indistinguishable from the gloom under the bushes. Only its eyes held what color was left. It expected to become one with the night through a spreading of its essence. It gasped when, as dusk finally ended, and felt fire licking over its body. To any observer, it may have looked like a burning rope on the grass.

 _That was a thing,_ it swiveled its presence and found its line of sight restricted. That meant it still had eyes. It tried looking for the rest of its body, but it was nowhere to be seen. _An incomplete transformation_ , it grumbled to itself. The physical plane must still be unwilling to relinquish its hold on it, but it was closer to its baser self so it was a start. It needed to collect more power. It would take work on its part to harness what it could and something was preventing it from accessing it. For the time being, it settled back into the shadows. It still had the mystery of the soft human to solve.

\----------

Movement from down the road called Dark back from inspecting the boundaries of its presence. _Horses_. It watched as the animals came closer towards the cottage. The riders had soldier’s uniforms. If Dark was a snake, it would have hissed and reared back at the approaching humans. They radiated malice. He knew _their_ kind. Even the demons that lurked in the night did not bother them because they were already evil enough for Hell. And they were decidedly heading towards the soft human and their friends.

It wanted to run into the building and help, but didn’t know how. It did not have enough power. It willed itself to swirl into a smoky line towards the slats of the cottage door. The use of the even that much energy held it immobile. It wished for its friend for around the hundredth time that day. Light had always had a kind of warmth that revived it.

It heard shouting from inside the house, which quickly turned to screaming. It wanted to recoil from the evil it sensed. It was maddening to watch as the soldiers held down the man he had seen earlier that day and made him watch as a woman, probably his mate, was being molested in front of him.

The Soft human and the young one was nowhere to be seen. But it could sense them. One with fear and the other… it paused. It was a blazing energy. The same one he felt that day when the Voice cast off the first humans. Full of righteous potency. And it felt it by the door. A moment more and it saw its human ( _its_?) swiftly strike the nearest soldier. They didn’t kill. But they had inflicted a great wound. Then they relinquished the weapon the moment they had pulled the soldier away from their friend. Dark had only managed a silent, frantic cry of ‘ _Now you have nothing to defend yourself!’_ before it saw them bring an almighty punch to the soldier’s head. Somehow the younger human appeared and helped, their blows knocking the soldier out. The other one found death in the old man’s hands.

All the excitement had Dark sighing, it barely registered that it had regained enough energy for it to move back into the wood’s edges, waiting for the human’s next step. It did not take long for the them to leave, and without a moment’s hesitation, it followed the soft human entering the wood’s shadows.

Come morning, Dark felt the heaviness of a body encircling its essence. It must mean it’s turning back into its snake form. It wasn’t bothered. It had decidedly taken great interest to the soft human and had kept them in its sights. But the human did not look like they were in any hurry to go anywhere. In fact, they did not look like they had any particular direction to follow.

It marveled at how the human seemed opposed to rest. It knew humans needed to sleep, especially during the night. Light praised him once for bringing human proper rest when they sleep. But as the day progressed, it saw how the human’s feet dragged as they walked and saw the slump in their shoulders.

 _For someone who’d gladly throw away their weapon to help others why won’t you help yourself and sleep properly?_ It grumbled at the human internally. It resolved to find them a good spot to rest, somewhere they’d feel safe. It slithered off in search for a proper shelter but keeping by the river so that the human wouldn’t fear getting lost. It found a nice cozy burrow and instantly remembered Light and the way it liked making nests and thought that the human would like the same as well. They stopped in the late afternoon just when the shadows started to lengthen and Dark felt its snake form start to dissolve. They looked lost in thought and the way the fading sun danced in their hair told Dark that the curls would decidedly be very soft. Remembering that it would lose its physical form soon, it made sure to catch the human’s attention and led it to the shelter where it was thrilled to find the human satisfied with the place, enough to fall fast asleep as soon as they had settled.

The night dragged on with Dark keeping an eye out for the soft human, who looked much more vulnerable in sleep. It was contentedly regaining energy and was very glad that the transformation had taken away its eyes, making it “see” better with its senses expanding further without the limits of their physical consciousness. But it was still unable to fully utilize its powers. It still felt unstable. It let its senses follow the sighs of the many creatures within the woods and the soft breaths of its human companion to calm itself.

\----------

The human sat up just after midnight and began fidgeting and gasping for breath. It heard the horses and the voices and considered if the soldier from the night before had survived and was seeking revenge. It didn’t like the thought so it slithered out from their hiding spot to check. The riders weren’t soldiers but they reeked of the same evil cravings. The snake in it wanted to hiss at them but settled for guarding its human. Their grins widened when they heard the wolves and Dark felt sick.

Considering that it could trust its human to stay safe for a while, it followed the hunters. There was only one pack, most were barely six months old. But the hunters were enthusiastic. There would be no good meat nor proper pelt to be had if they did catch one of the beasts, but they pursued the animals nonetheless relishing in the thrill of the hunt.

The hunters had very limited arrows. But the fact did not give Dark relief. It understood that the arrows must have already been used, on what, it was afraid to learn. With the little power it had accumulated over the last few hours it began tugging at the shadows, glad that it was getting strong enough to manipulate the black patches, to hide the wolves and create illusions to make the hunters miss their mark.

The wolves had been sprinting to safety almost every time and so Dark followed the hunters instead. But with the imbalance within itself and the draining of power, it began to falter. It had become distracted and the consequence was a quick yap preceding another mad dash through the woods. As the pack scattered it reigned in the illusions and settled with a cloak over the injured animal, shielding it from the hunters. Still it urged the hound to hide in the bushes, it didn’t know for how long it could keep the shields up. Fortunately, it heard the hunters retreating, letting itself relax further.

The wolf whimpered and pushed itself through the thick shrubbery and Dark followed close. It stopped before it breached the edge of the low leaves. On the other side was its human. After the exhausting night, now he had to deal with the warring emotions of shock, exasperation and relief. The first two firmly based on the need to berate them for coming out of hiding where they would have been perfectly safe. The last was wrenched out of it on instinct, for when it gazed upon the human’s gentle blue eyes, it felt a modicum amount of healing energy whether from its own powers or perhaps the magic the human carried with them, it didn’t care.

The human was speaking gently and it took Dark a few moments to realize it was talking to the bloodied wolf. It stiffened then readied itself to restrain the bristling animal. But it was steadily mesmerized by the human’s calming demeanor. Dark was also not immune. Soon the human had cared for the animal’s wounded shoulder and was petting it. Dark was indignant. It eyed the punctured cloak when the wolf forgot itself at one point. The human had stopped to help again, but this time they, and not just the cloak, could have been worse for wear. It was easier to rein in a wolf pack than them.

But when it thought the night’s excitement had died down, one of the hunters found them. Dark was running on reserves, and its attempts at an illusion were fruitless. It coiled around the wolf, the nearest warm body, next to it to help ground its nerves. There were words thrown between the humans but it did not listen. It was concentrating on replenishing its powers before anything unsavory happened. Before it knew what happened, it found itself and the wolf trussed into the soft human’s arms and they were pelting through the woods. The hunter was just behind them, and it hated how vulnerable they were.

A horrible tumble had the human sprawling on the ground. They let the wolf tumble from their arms and it rolled off to the side. Dark slid to the ground, a booted foot barely missing its coiled presence as it sailed to give enthusiastic kick towards the soft human’s side. They let out a pained noise that spurned it to action.

It swiftly slid towards the cruel human’s legs. It was still weak. If it had not been able to change from snake to its baser form, it could neither do its opposite at the moment. It did not have a snake’s mouth. But it needed to strike. It pulled what power it had, imagining it was still a snake. Solid and venomous. It thought of how it would fill the human’s body with a poison that would burn it from the inside out. It hated violence. Never cared for it. It had seen enough from the humans. And it could not help but cry at the fact that they would use the night and the shadows to plot and carry out those heinous crimes. Light let Dark sleep all day in its warmth when it came to. It did not kill. It was put on Earth to guide the humans, not kill them. But this human, he could tell, would not be reasoned with. He would only hurt. It would not let it hurt the human who reminded it of its friend, whose gentle hands cradled the injured and had loathed to leave them in the face of danger. It called back all the memories from millennia of cruelty done within its realm, creating one concentrated point of negative energy and struck.

It let its venom enter the human’s spirit, harsher than a normal snake bite. It could see how its power consumed the blackened soul. It felt no guilt, simply pity over the creature that chose such unrepentant existence. The hunter’s torch had set the ground on fire shutting them off from their enemies.

The other hunter emerged from somewhere on the other side of the It called on the wolf, watching the flames from behind a tree trunk. _Protect the human, the way they protected you._ It whispered to its conscious thoughts. _Let them find a shelter where they would be taken care of. I won’t be able to._

The soft human stumbled away. The wolf limped closer, mindful of the heat, to let Dark drape itself on its lanky frame then trotted to follow a flapping cloak in between the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post this earlier but my niece gave me the puppy dog eyes to help her with her school project. I don't know if I helped or made things worse for her. XD
> 
> Yes, this sounded Crowley-ish in my head, but their personalities are alike. Light and Dark do have quite a history together. They do love each other, but not as romantically as humans. They are just energies. In this AU anyway. We'll save the romance for our human characters, yeah?


	5. A Hop, Skip, and a Tumble Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another chapter. :D

A sleepy Ash hummed in appreciation. He could feel warmth all around him and the softness of decadent furs. He smiled, eyes still closed, and let the sensation wash over him and tried to go back to sleep. Something tickled his nose and he sneezed.

He sat bolt upright, pupils blowing wide as the memories of the night before came back to him in an almighty crash. He held a hand to stifle the threatening sobs at the back of his throat. He blinked, pushed his head onto his knees and breathed. When he mustered enough composure, he lifted his face to take in the early morning light from the mouth of a small cave he had apparently stumbled into the night before. He felt completely lost. He vaguely remembered finding it but knew exhaustion took him under soon after sitting down, back pressed to the cool wall.

Patting the ground for his pack, he felt his hand rest on something warm, soft and moving. He whipped his head to look at what it was, heart in his throat.

It was the wolf from the night before, curled right next to his pack and sleeping soundly. It was what he was cuddling before he woke up. He sighed, but with an exasperated fondness. His mind was dredging up the events the night before as he became more awake by the minute. He remembered now that it was the animal that shepherded him into the cave, even after his many attempts to push it away to find its family. It looked peaceful in its slumber; the injury perhaps more taxing than he’d thought.

The sky grew lighter and Ash moved to the entrance to take in a little more of his surroundings. He knew he was lost, but he wasn’t in the least particular with where he was going in the first place, so he took it all in stride. He swiveled in search of the South Ridges. It was one landmass he’d instantly recognize. The massive belt of imposing mountains running down the south-eastern side of the kingdom looked fairly taller from his vantage point. The southern keeps were to be found at the other side. The side where he was held the Old Woods.

Letting his mind wander, he supposed he was at the edge of the In-Between, that tangle of woods and eerie silence punctuated by tall, jagged rock piles (fearfully nicknamed “ _teeth_ ” by the locals) one of which housed their little cave. It bordered the Old Woods that made people turn tail as soon they realized where they were. People had vehemently tried to not to explore those parts and the dark woodland beyond. He’s heard stories of the things to be found there. Shadows and presences dwelling beneath the thick canopy. But he filed them in his head as scary stories meant for children. He believed whatever it was to be met in the Old Woods were more the pigment of the imagination rather than actual truths. Something so unknown and mysterious was bound to terrify those that fancied a good scare. Now that he found himself ensconced in it, it didn’t seem so bad. Perhaps being more than a little eccentric made him feel at home.

He was thrilled with living out his own adventure, and he wondered if he could stay there where it was quiet, far from the cruelties of his fellow men. Letting his eyes sweep the landscape again, he knew it was not a place that would always welcome a human. He resolved to go south, again heeding Tom’s advice. With the In-Between, the Old Woods and the South Ridges, it was probably the safest place to run off to. He didn’t know what he would find, but surely no one would recognize him there and he’d be able to start a new life. The only problem was, there were only two ways in, the eastern mountain pass and the road that crossed Bandit County. The former would have sounded safer if not for the fact that it had been closed off decades ago. Gypsies tell of how the Old Woods’ magic grew over the paths, claiming it for its own purpose. That left the perilous southern roads. But as much as bandits terrified him, he knew he only needed to search for human company that knew the safest trade route.

He climbed up on one of the more manageable rock mounds to get a better view. Everything was a soft green. The moss was blanketing the stones that marked the In-Between and tall grass swayed in the morning breeze. Tilting his head, he marveled at how the monoliths were scattered. Lovingly placed in no apparent reason instead of ominously sprouting from the ground, as the tales went. The place gave off a decidedly wistful appearance, like the pieces on a chessboard.

The sky was turning bluer, clouds skipping in little threads. The In-Between was still in shadow however as the mountains blocked some of the sun’s radiance from the east. He didn’t mind, again shocking himself with the peacefulness he felt. He turns a small smile towards the mountains finding them fascinating. As he was on the run, the dark was a welcome cover.

A bark from below brought him back to the present. “Good morning to you, too.” He carefully lowered himself to the ground to be met with an enthusiastic wag of a bushy tail. The wolf let him scratch its head as he examined its shoulder. “I’m going to have to change those soon,” he muttered to himself but smiled warmly at the wolf.

He felt a lightness in his chest that morning, one he couldn’t shake. He knew he ought to still be anxious, what with Sandalphon on his heels and being stuck in the In-Between, but he was feeling more carefree than the last few days. Or perhaps it was having another creature to talk to. The prospect of tramping around the unknown landscape becoming a little less daunting.

“I don’t really know where to find breakfast but I’m sure we’ll manage,” he said as he went back to the cave to gather his pack. His voice lilting and in a pitch higher than what he’d been using for a long while. A sure sign he was very much relaxed. Surely the hound won’t comment on his tone. The wolf waited patiently for him by the entrance and he bent to pat its head again before an idea wormed itself inside his head. “Now, I don’t know how much you’d understand, but seeing as you led me here perhaps you can lead me out?” It was an odd request but with all the strangeness of the last few days, and with nothing to lose really, he’d gladly give it a try. “I love being with you, but I do fancy running back to a village where I could ask how to travel to the southern keeps.”

The wolf gazed at him with its light brown eyes then turned its attention at some point behind his head, ears twitching. Ash turned but winced at the sudden burst of light. The sun had risen higher and its bright beams had spilled over the mountain top blinding him momentarily. The wolf nudged his calf. He chuckled down at it. “I’m fine, dear.” The animal accepted another head pat, and even chasing his palm before a hiss from the shadows made it jump.

“There must be snakes nearby.” Ash murmured to himself but could not go beyond that thought as the wolf butted his leg to go forward. “Oh, alright.”

They went at a slow and steady pace westward. The wolf plowed a road of its own through the tall grass with Ash following meekly, feeling the magic prickling his skin. After two days, he got used to it and began enjoying their walk. Ash insisted on taking breaks in between to let the animal rest and recover. It could see it was still pained. But it would only leave him at sundown under hollowed tree trunks or in one of the teeth’s shallow caves before hunting down its own dinner and coming back to huddle close for the rest of the night.

In the daytime when the animal napped, he foraged for fruits and nuts. At first, he felt wary with eating the foods he found. They looked far too tempting – too perfect. But as the stress of the last few days faded, his hunger came back tenfold. When he finally did take a bite of a perfectly respectable apple, red and glistening with a few dewdrops the perpetual twilight kept back, he moaned. He did not restrain himself afterwards.

He had also enjoyed drinking from the gentle brooks and rivulets that ran through both sides of the woods. He had followed one of these to a pool as clear as glass and had enjoyed a good dip. Another brought him to a hollow cradling a spring up to its edges. A thin blanket of steam rose on its surface. He let his hands swirl the waters and felt a trickle of power bleed into his skin. What little aches he had felt for sleeping under cramped conditions disappeared. He instinctively ran back to get the wolf and bathed its wound. He took an empty wineskin and, after seeking permission from the pool itself and waiting for any kind of admonishment for a minute, filled it. He assured the space it was in case he’d need to clean the wound again in the next few hours but when night came, only a pink scar remained. The wolf became more energetic, rushing past Ash then bounding back. He was breathless trying to keep up but could not fault the poor thing which had been slumping the last few days, stung by pain. He named it Shadow for its sleek gray fur and as a means to call it back when it had gone too far down the path for him to see.

They stayed in the relative safety of the In-Between. He felt time was different there. The light was a constant grey softening the landscape’s edges. But as lovely as his journey was, Ash was itching for a good a mattress or at least some blankets to curl under. Finally, the wolf brought him to a footpath which led to a small village. It had no inn, just the usual cottages scattered to follow the inhabitants’ needs conveniently. Undeterred, he started asking about for any that will offer him room. None had volunteered, looking at his wolf friend askance. Instead, they pointed him towards the nunnery at the edge of the village that, according to them, always welcomed stragglers.

He found a small church at the very end of the village streets, but no other building in sight. Shadow had run off, distractedly sniffing the underbrush. He knew he’d find him later on, so he wasn’t worried. But he felt the stirrings of uneasiness now that he had to face humans once more. He squared his shoulders, knowing he’d have to ask someone for directions. He padded over to the dark double doors and entered. There was no one inside but he held his breath. Churches had always instilled reverence in him, although he preferred to not come to mass, even at his old keep’s chapel. Not because he didn’t like the religion, but the experience had always been stilted by the other church-goers. They kept their holier-than-thou attitudes even though they quickly return to their immoral gossips and covetousness as soon as the church gates were out of sight.

He was also horrified with how they raised voices against witches. He saw nothing wrong with being closer to nature than the church. And he kept an open mind when it came to magic, awed with how witches were able to use such powers. His logic was that the Earth was created by God, so it wasn’t real blasphemy to him to be attuned to magic that the Almighty had placed in nature. He tells himself that not all witches were bad. They can do good things too. And it was his understanding that witches became vengeful _because_ people treated them horribly.

He took slow steps between the pews, the pulpit and the altar. It looked quaint and perfect for the village. He walked the aisle simply sight-seeing before moving along. In an alcove by the right-hand side he saw a door. Small but slightly ajar letting in a slit of sunshine. He thought it might lead to a garden and wiggled delightedly at the thought. He simply loved a good garden, but he never could keep even a fern alive.

He didn’t find one, but he did come across a path through the grass, trodden on by many feet. Too curious for his own good, and having far too much time on his hands, he followed its course. The shrubbery was wild, encroaching on the path. It didn’t feel suffocating but it was enough to hide the knee-high stone wall at the end of the trail. Ash tumbled over landing face first into a bed of sweet-smelling lavender. He groaned and pushed his torso up. It took a few more minutes and a lot of twisting to untangle his feet from the bushes on the outer side of the low wall.

He stood up half covered in dirt, spitting a lavender stalk from his lips and purple petals in his hair. No one saw his plight but knew he made a mess of the garden. He was embarrassed but he had to apologize. He meandered over to what he supposed was the nunnery, patting his clothes and hair to free the proof of his scuffle with the earth. It was red from the clay bricks it was built on with a small chapel attached. He was a little apprehensive having to call on nuns. He knew that they might shun him. Men-shaped beings do not usually enter convents, but if they were as welcoming as the villagers say, he could at least try his luck.

He took a deep breath, considering his options once more. But he could feel a rock-shaped lump over his right eye. And all the exercise in the flower bed made him hungry. Propriety be damned. He walked to the large front doors and knocked.


	6. In the Nunnery

They took one look at his soft form, ragged cloak, dirt-smudged face and weary eyes and had taken pity. The nunnery’s Mother Superior, had told him that they had no readily available room, but he could stay in the kitchen where the heart would warm him for the night. He expressed his gratitude and his apologies for the mess he left and the sudden appearance.

The kitchen was indeed nice and warm. He did not dine with the nuns but they left him at the kitchen table with his vittles then run on back to their chores. It was what he expected but what he was not prepared for was their chattering. They weren’t loud but they had kept an incessant buzz of voices that the silence when they left had him thinking he’d gone deaf. He supposed spending too much time with only a wolf as companion would cause that. In fact, he’d forgotten the last time he found himself with such a large group of people.

He’d gone out once as the sun set through the kitchen’s back door that led to the nunnery’s vegetable garden and to the woods’ edge. He called for Shadow and gave the animal a bone he found in the kitchen scrap heap. The wolf chomped down on it gratefully then left him as the sky darkened. He situated himself in a quiet kitchen corner barely suppressing his sigh of longing. He was alone again after days of getting used to Shadow nuzzling up to him. He chastised himself. He had spent years alone, although perhaps he was too focused on work and didn’t notice his need for kinship.

He began reaching for his book, a story about dragons, unicorns and knights in shining armor. It had been a gift from an old friend – Alice, from before they moved to Gabriel’s keep. It was her favorite. She had tried to teach him the little she could to be able to decipher the pages. But the lessons were cut short. He knew he was not as proficient as she wanted, but it was more than what the local children would ever had hoped when it came to an education. And he was proud that he could at least write the letters.

“Can you read?”

Ash yelped in surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry, little one. Did you not hear me come in?” It was one of the nuns he saw bumbling around the convent carrying tins of biscuits and wailing over the complete lack of snacks for the evening prayers.

“I’m Sister Mary,” she piped up even before Aziraphale could answer her first two questions. “You are a queer one, knowing how to read. Only some of us are able to you know, we’re trying though. Mother Superior insists that we keep the studies, and she and Sister Theresa had been very patient with me. But really staying in one place is a hardship. Specially hunched over that tiny desk, and oh the writing! That was worst of all. The letters still swimming in my head even after I close my eyes when I sleep. They are so very dull, just squiggly lines and all that, but some are inked in different colors, so at least those are pretty…”

“Sister Mary,” a voice from the kitchen door stopped the first nun in her tirade of her scripture duties giving Aziraphale time to take a breath. He felt winded even though it wasn't him who almost talked his tongue off. “There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you. The sheets need replacing, and it is your turn to do the rounds.”

“Oh, all right.” She waved a farewell to Ash and marched out the kitchen. Leaving him under the quizzical eyes of Sister Theresa.

“You read?” she paused, curiosity replacing her previous annoyance with the younger nun.

“Not really, no,” the nun’s eyebrow gave a jaunty jerk, eyes flicking towards the open book then back at Ash, waiting for him to say more. “I’m better with writing,” he started shyly. “But by just a smidge. My mother was a baker in a local keep and would sometimes be called to help prepare the lord’s meals. The lord’s daughter found me in the castle library looking at the drawings while I was waiting for my mother to finish. It was always open but no one used it, and I was assured that there at least, I’d be kept out of trouble. I was afraid I’d be punished at first. But she taught me the alphabet and when we left the keep, she gave me the book. I’m sure if she were around, she’d have taught me more. I only bring it out when I miss her.” He was alarmed with his babbling, it was the longest he’d talked to anyone since he ran away, Sister Mary’s quirk must have been contagious.

“That’s sweet of you, dear. You must have been a very good student for the noblewoman to give you a book. Can’t say much for Sister Mary. Between you me, she’s a little too much of a chatterbox and very air-headed sometimes. Can’t ground her head, or her mouth.”

“She is still very lucky to be able to learn. It is not a blessing that is given to many.”

“Not many that enter the nunnery are as enthusiastic with the letters as you. They came here to keep from marrying, I’m afraid,” she put on a small smile. “Not that I’m complaining or anything. The garden’s need all the hands we could get before winter comes. But if we could copy more manuscripts and books, perhaps we could get a little more money to get this place in better shape. Anyone who sees the town will know how meager the tithing could be.”

“Perhaps I could help?” he remembered the feel of a quill and the slick slide of the nib on parchment.

Sister Theresa smiled, “Would you like to continue your studies then?”

“If it won’t be too much trouble,” his voice was small but it was hopeful. “I’m supposed to travel south but I’m not really needed there yet. If you’d allow an extra pair of hands, I’m willing.”

“Our patron is in dire need of more manuscripts to impress his soon-to-be wife. The sooner we finish them the better,” she said brightly. “I’ll go ask Mother Superior and we’ll get you settled.”

\-----------

Sister Mary was busy taking a tin of biscuits over to the library. She should have been there ten minutes ago, but she never did like staying still for indeterminate amounts of time. She considered it as just penance for the Lord's work, but really it just makes her more irritable. Writing was never her forte. Or at least the kinds of writings the nuns teach her. She'd rather do the laundry or take market duties over it. But they needed to finish those books their patron wanted. Her hands would be occupied but the biscuits were there to keep her mouth busy. The other nuns tend to get irritable with her twitching and blabbering. What puzzles her is the others were just as chatty but her babbling distresses them. Perhaps it was because she wouldn’t let them talk over her. She can't help herself though.

As she came into the old library, she heard the newcomer's voice and Mother Superior in hushed but enthusiastic tones. The others tittering amiably as they worked.

“Ah, Sister Mary,” Mother superior addressed her as she rounded the bookshelf that hid them from view. “We were waiting for you.”

“Sorry I'm late Mother Superior, you see, it appears we ran out of biscuits and sister Susan was making it very difficult for me to find this last batch, which really she shouldn't have stored at the very back of the kitchen cupboard. Thankfully it still seems fresh enough to eat. She didn't seem to have considered they might stale with what - "

“Yes, Sister Mary,” the old woman sighed. She knew that tone meant stop talking, so she did. “It sounds unfortunate. But come closer child, we have work to do. Now, you've met Ash. It is my pleasure to say that he will stay with us ‘til the patron’s project is done.”

“Do you know how to write, then? That sounds marvelous, really. I for one get stuck with the curly bits at the end. Never been good with my hands, although I can make good biscuits, and I've heard my soup-making skills are tol-“

“Right. Yes, Sister Mary, we understand you'd like to get acquainted, but you get back to your pages and I'll teach our new friend.”

“Yes, Mother Superior,” she sighed as she slipped unto her desk at the other side of the room behind three others who were already bent over their work. She started setting up her inks, quill and biscuits then settled herself for the long haul.

\---------

Ash had been entranced with the inks. The supple colors shining in their pots. Blues, reds and yellows then the mixings and the quills! Oh, the quills! Such tiny little things made of feathers he had never thought of seeing, or even holding, again! Mother Superior had taken him under her wing and as the lunch hour bell brought them back to reality, he had managed to write half a page. The old lady had been cooing at his progress. It was adamant, she said, that he was a fast learner. But he always called back the memory of Alice and her ministrations over a slate until the letters had materialized into something readable. He had been afraid that he had forgotten but he had most definitely not! And for the first time in years his head was filled of wonderful musings of being a scribe. He would gladly wield a quill over a hammer. He had to struggle with inkblots but the other nuns were always ready to help.

He was given his own room the day after he arrived and after his first week, he stayed in his quarters to work. It was at the other end of the corridor from the kitchens with a side-door beside it leading to the edge of the garden by the woods. It had a hastily formed straw bed at the far corner. A desk much like the one he occupied in the library was to its right beneath a window, sunlight pouring in through the glass. The pages he needed to copy was stacked on the wooded surface. A shelf beside it held ink pots, parchment and quills.

He set himself a schedule and had become a fixture in the daily chores. He would wake up to help prepare the dough for baking, fill a few pages, take his lunch in the kitchens, then back to his room until supper. He would sneak out to call for Shadow after his dinner, giving it a treat if he could, then trek back to his room to sleep. In all the time he stayed within the nunnery walls he was not introduced to other nuns beside the ones in the library but he could hear them. Their voices seeping through the many cracks of the nunnery walls. Sister Theresa had told him that he should keep from the general population, Mother Superior insisted on it. He believed it was to keep the nun's virtues, although he was sure he could pass as one of them. He had been a month with them and his hair had begun growing longer, curling just past his ears. His features were becoming more feminine as the weeks go.

He had Sisters Theresa and Mary for regular visitors. They would lead him to the kitchens where they could exchange pleasantries over biscuits without the permeating smell of parchment which was growing steadily in his room. Sister Mary had also started to braid his hair when she couldn't find anything else to fidget with. Mother Superior would also come by once in a while to attend to his questions should he have any. He was also thankful for them not asking him to attend the service at the church. He took his prayers with him at the edge of the woods before he called on Shadow.

Sister Theresa caught him with the wolf one night, sweat quickly breaking over his brows and upper lips while he promised that it was tame and his friend. He had dropped to his knees to hold the animal in his arms taking precautions against a possible attack if not restrained. Shadow, not caring a bit about the nun, nuzzled Ash’s neck stopping his excuses. The nun watched as the wolf gave him a slobbery kiss before laughing as he tried to get the animal off him.

“He doesn’t look like a beastie, he can stay.” And with that permission, Shadow was welcomed to come and go as it pleased but could only sleep in front of Ash's door ( _not inside, or he might mess with the pages_ ) with his own daily dinner.

As the exhaustion wore off from his travelling, he began sleeping less as was his habit. He was beginning to becoming too absorbed in his work that he had many times forgotten to sleep until the large candle by his table sputtered out to tell him that he had reached well past midnight. Mother Superior had asked him to use just one candle a night to make sure he got sleep. But Ash had never been more invigorated as he was penning letter after letter, curling lines into the pages or coloring the edges of some. Writing took precision, one skill he was comfortable with, an art he had perfected over curing pieces of metal to get the right sharpness and shape. The curlicues were as intricate as the filigrees over jewelry or sword hilts his old job had necessitated he do.

The nuns praised him with his work. Before he knew it, it was the end of summer. He had stayed sequestered in that simple village that had given him a new life. The day the project was done and sent to its patron, he searched for Mother Superior. He wanted to stay. He'd try to convince her. He was positive he'd be able to. He smiled to himself as he tracked the halls toward her study. It was silent in the halls, the late afternoon calling the nuns over for prayers before dinner preparations. He had just reached the door when he heard the old woman keening in indignation.

"He's not here. You have no right to pass through these halls disturbing our sanctity." Ash was in mind of barreling in to help the nun shoo off whoever had caused her alarm, that is, until he heard the offending party.

"I am a Lord of this kingdom. I have every right." Ash felt numb.

Gabriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say I had a few chapters already written. But forgive me my many typos. I hope you're enjoying the story so far. :D


	7. Nice and Accurate Prophecies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blatant murder of the show's prophecies.
> 
> (And this won't be the last) ;)

Mother Superior looked out over the late afternoon sun. She had just left the others to finish their afternoon prayers and was making her way to her study to plan for the next week’s budget. The payment for the manuscripts they’ve sent off would come as soon as the patron had done inspecting them. It would be more than enough to repair the nunnery’s west wing. She gave herself a mental note to check the preparations in that part of the building later that day.

She stopped in front of a tall window facing the front lawn looking out over the flower beds remembering the arrival of their blonde guest. The boy had proven themselves a quick learner and had been very helpful. He had also managed to capture the hearts of the little group he had interacted with. But it was not the kind of love that would threaten nuns to go back against their vows. It was of friendship earnestly offered. The bond had strengthened with each loaf in the oven, each carrot plucked from the garden, and with every tingling laugh that escaped his lips. He had blessed the nunnery with his child-like innocence and disposition. It had been so long since they had young ones run about, but the village had shrunk greatly in the past years. Ash awakened their womanly instincts. They had been mothering him. And she was just as guilty, she supposed. But she knew he couldn’t stay.

There was a voice needling at the back of her mind that says she _can_ let him stay. The nunnery had never been very strict, it was open sanctuary to all who required it, they were just too far off to be of any popularity. Not to mention the place being very close to the Old Woods scare people off. The In-Between, thinned enough to settle among the wilderness sandwiched by the old church and the nunnery. Only the unique cases would sometimes stumble unto them. Like the boy. Keeping him was still an option. She looked out the window once more and shook her greying head. She could not doubt the need to let him go.

She reached her study. It had a desk and a bookcase behind it sporting more than the obligatory bible. Should anyone care to look, the books would reveal codices, grimoires, spell books and the occasional cookbook. A collection frowned upon by men of the cloth (except the cookbook), which explained the lack of funding, but necessary nonetheless to survive in their current placement. Magic did not go away just because you didn’t believe in it.

The old woman had barely taken her seat when one of the younger nuns ran in. “I’m sorry for bothering you Mother Superior, but there’s a ma – “

“Are you the head of this institution?” The voice was loud and overtly fake in its cheeriness. It came from a man in a blaring white tunic and resplendent purple cloak, a clear sign of wealth and nobility. His eyes a shade of lilac, a mop of short, perfect-looking dark hair and a set of gleaming teeth sporting a shark-like grin. He pushed the girl gruffly to enter the room. “I’m here to ah – “

“Hold out for inquiries?” A drawling voice came from behind the first man. It sounded reedy with the practiced cadence of the eager to please. But the figure stayed within the shadows of the man in purple, keeping his place.

“Ah, yes! Inquiries!” The man clapped his hand and smiled tightly. “We are here in search of a boy with white curls and soft-looking body. Blueish eyes. Usually wears a white or cream tunic.”

“Margie,” Mother Superior calls to the young nun who looked extremely ruffled after the rough treatment. “Tell the others to prepare the meals for the evening, and gather the bread into a basket to take to the pantry. And tell Sister Theresa to, ah… see to the west wing, if you please. I shall speak with out guest.” She injected enough authority to keep the young woman from staying and possibly telling the new-comer of their blonde acquaintance. She needed to remove him from the premises as soon as possible. The girl ran off after a quick curtsy to the stranger and closing the door behind her and effectively muffling her outraged muttering.

“Whoever you are looking for is nowhere in sight.” The old woman keeps her voice calm. She’s been told as a child that predators smell fear, and she will not be preyed upon.

“I simply heard a traveler was directed here after he asked for lodgings somewhere in the village. Sounded like the man I needed to see. We’ve been looking for him for weeks. He's my… acquaintance if you will. If you have not seen him, me and my steward would gladly _question_ the other nuns," the man’s voice dropped with the last few words and he gazed intently at the nun.

She shivered briefly. The threat duly noted, but she could not give in to his intimidation. "He's not here. You have no right to pass through these halls disturbing their sanctity."

"I am a Lord of this kingdom. I have every right."

  


\-----------

"He had come here but left the next day." Ash could hear Mother Superior’s conviction with the lie. His feet had been rooted to the spot, but seeing that she was preserving him from Gabriel was enough to rouse his trembling body and he tiptoed towards a nearby broom closet. Sister Mary showed it to him once, telling him how she would hide her biscuits there to nibble after she was sent to Mother Superior for her nattering.

He kept the door open to keep abreast of the situation which had him cowering in fear for the old nun as Gabriel's tone became increasingly heated. He heard the door slam open and he cowered further into the dark recess.

"I own him! He left without my permission. He has work to do that needs getting done before the winter sets." Gabriel’s voice was loud enough to rattle the wall he was leaning against, although perhaps it was him that was quaking out of fear for himself and the nun. He heard feet ready to scour the halls of the nunnery.

"We did not know, sire,” her voice steady, riding the temporary swell of confidence she was starting to feel. It stopped the charging steps. Ash chanced a peek. He saw Gabriel and Sandalphon, who had kept his tongue but looked as if he was enjoying the scene. They were halfway down the hallway to the west wing, Mother Superior keeping a relatively safe distance away.

"You are losing me money, you old crone!" Gabriel spat. He took a deep breath to calm down enough to continue and grit out, "my men had seen him coming to this dump."

"You are being blinded by greed and wrath, child," the old woman said softly. It is a combination she had seen so many times and almost all faced damnation from it, no matter her interjection. And yet she hoped it would not be so to this young lord.

"He is here. That much I can be certain. And if you keep him from me… I'm afraid something _unfortunate_ might happen." Sandalphon snickered beside him.

Gabriel left the threat hanging a moment before he turned a different direction, this time to the distant front door. “We won’t be far,” he said over his shoulder. They wouldn’t search the halls for the time being but the manic glee on Sandalphon’s face was enough to strike Ash that they would be trying a different tact before morning. When his footsteps had died down and she heard the bang of the distant front door, he stepped out to meet the old woman. She breathed in deeply before turning to come face-to-face with the apologetic-looking Ash.

"Forgive me Mother Superior for the danger I have sent towards you and the others. I will take my leave tonight." She could see the wetness in his eyes but his shoulders were set and his lips a thin line of determination. "His threat is very real and if he finds me here, I cannot think of what he'd do." His voice was breaking with each word.

"I do not know him. And I know you only for the very little time you’ve spent here. I assume you've heard our conversation?” She was looking at him knowingly.

"Yes. I wanted to ask you if I may stay. But now I understand It was wishful thinking." He hung his head.

"I have lied for your sake." Ash was wringing his hands and sputtered apologies but felt the old woman’s hands land softly on his shoulders. He looked up to a reassuring smile. "But I do not regret it. His soul is already far gone,” the old woman mourned. "They’ll be back, come,” she led him back into her office and sat him down. “I gather you worked for him?”

Ash nodded. “But I will not go back. Please, Mother Superior, you must understand,” he pleaded and rambled on of what tortures he had suffered from both Gabriel and Sandalphon. He even took off his boots to show her the scars of burned skin. He had always kept his eyes off them if he could, grimacing at the lines branding his calves, looking more like scales on his pale skin. He heard the old woman gasp and he hid his legs back into his boots.

“Do you have anywhere to go, child?" she asked gently, holding his hands in hers.

He shook his head, wiping the errant tear or two that escaped. "I guess I ought to resume my journey South. If I follow the road, I might be able to overtake them a day if they lingered here for a while although I might not be able to outrun their horses."

“No. There is another path. I cannot promise that it would be safer, but I know it will lead you to the place you ought to go to." She took a deep breath before continuing. “You might not know, but we hold the gateway towards the Old Woods.” Ash’s eyes widened. He had played with Shadow at the trees’ edges but felt nothing of it. Perhaps he had unwittingly gotten used to whatever aura it had from staying too long in the In-Between and the nunnery.

The nun expected fear from her words but she was surprised to find curiosity in his eyes. She continued, “You must follow the ancient stones. Do not be afraid of them. They will lead you to an old friend. She will not let you stay but will help you recuperate from your travels. It will be a few days walk. And you will come across bandit county. It might not be pleasant. But it will keep you from the main trading routes that despicable man would take, she knows another way to pass the mountains.” She squeezed his shoulders and they locked eyes. They had spent a while in the office and the sun had started to set, the orange light brought out the wrinkles in her face and punctuated the weariness old years carried.

“I was told of your coming,” she whispered. “And we had been preparing for it. Although I did hope it wasn’t you, events proved otherwise.” She took a card from a stack on her desk and held it out to him. It read:

**  
**

**  
**

**When the angel doth readeth these words of mine, within the halls of rede, then the final days are certes upon us. Do not linger in tears, I prithee. Open thine eyes to let in the Dark and keep thy fortitude, for soon enouff ye will be playing with Fyre** **.**

  


  


“Angel?” he stared at the card.

“That will be you, child.” She closed his hands on the paper as he started to return it, entreating him to keep it.

“I’m sorry but I’m not an angel. I – “

“Nonsense. You look and act like an angel and according to the other prophecies sent our way, that is most definitely you.”

“Other prophecies?”

“One of them said if we let the cherub’s hands work their gift with ink, we would receive great fortune – those manuscripts you’ve helped us with would pay handsomely; One more talked of the same cherub taming a shadow – Sister Theresa told me of that wolf of yours.” She had been rifling through other cards showing each one to him.

“Please they may be talking of someone else entirely.”

“Actually, one of these did say that the angel hath fallen – in a bed of lavender,” she chuckled briefly at Ash’s reddening face, then her expression clouded. “And you’ve further confirmed it when you showed me your scars that looked like ‘Scales wrought from unforgiving chains. A link to suffering and deceit, but broken by free will,’” she read from another card.

“Alright,” he finally conceded but with a growing sense of dread. “But what does ‘the final days’ mean?”

“I don’t know. But I am sure you will after you met the person who had been leaving these messages. That’s where you’ll be going. But now, you need to get ready.”

Ash ran towards his room to get his pack and cloak. He did not dawdle, his hammering heart in sync with his quick steps. Shadow bolted awake, as he ran past him to his room. The wolf whined.

“We need to leave shadow. Back to the woods, I’m afraid,” he called to the animal as he grabbed his things. He placed the prophecy card he’d been given in his cloak's inner pocket. Just as he was stuffing the last of his clothing in the pack, he heard the hurried footsteps and the swishing of skirts. Mother Superior had with her six others, Sister Theresa and Sister Mary among them. They all looked grim but determined.

"Come quick, before the light disappears,” Sister Theresa beckoned. They ran towards the edge of the woods, Shadow sprinting ahead. They tugged him forward and stood in a semi-circle around him, Mother Superior in the middle. She looked him straight in the eyes.

“We will help light the path for you but you must give up your part. She took his left hand and with a quick motion sliced his open palm. It wasn't a deep wound, and he barely registered pain until Mother Superior had pressed the bloodied palm to a nearby boulder that flooded his vision with light. The world was being bathed in purples and pinks as dusk set in, but all Ash could see was blue. He closed his eyes from the light but could still feel it pulsing past his eyelids. He felt his smarting palm leave the cold rock then sting once more as it was closed over leather. He pried his eyes open to see the handle of a small knife. Blade dark as the night. It did not look like any metal he could remember.

He looked up at the nuns but they all had their heads bowed towards the earth, chanting. He could not register their words. As the last vestiges of twilight left the old garden, a trail of scarlet-tinged fog snaked its way pass his legs looking tangible. He felt warmth from its tendrils seeping through his booted ankles.

The chanting stopped and someone pulled him for a hug. “We'll miss you, you know,” it was Sister Mary. She squeezed him once then left him go, for the first time keeping a conversation within ten words. After her was Sister Theresa who said nothing but patted his back with her hug and pushing a sack into his free hand. Mother Superior closed both her hands on the hand clinging to the knife.

“You will find a trail of light, the color of whatever it was you saw from the boulder. Only you will be able to see it and it will lead you towards the next stones. At the end you'll find the friend I told you of. At each you must offer a little of your blood as I have shown you," he looked back at the still glowing boulder. He could see the bloody smear slowly fading next to a rune he knows nothing about. “The offering will declare that you are a guest of the Old Woods and its magic will not harm you so long as you respect the space. But you are not safe from human intervention, bandits commonly hide in those woods nearer the trade route, so promise you will be careful."

“I – “ Ash was interrupted by an explosion from the west wing. Flames bloomed, consuming vines stuck at the outer walls. They all gave a gasp, then came the shouts. Mother Superior quickly urged him away.

“But –“ he stammered.

“We’ll take care of it, don’t you worry,” one of the other nuns called out to him as they hurried to fight the growing inferno.

“Go! Before they come!” The old woman kissed his forehead, one last affectionate gesture, then pushed him roughly into the trees before walking briskly back to the building with the others.

He moaned in grief watching his would-have-been home flaming. Fate had cursed him, he knew. The fire ran towards the roof and was bathing the garden in orange hues. But it held none of the warmth his candle brought him each night. He was still, tears streaming down his cheeks, unable to move. When he saw movement next to the door they ran out of. It was a familiar figure. Even with the little light, he could see a glint of gold from its grin as it regarded the burning nunnery.

As the face turned slowly to scan the garden, Ash bolted into the woods. Hoping against hope he had not been seen. He could hear phantom footsteps after him, but he saw no one when he turned. It was fear that gripped him to run. A fear not for the unknown, but from the hounds of his past.


	8. The Archer

Ash felt his legs give from exhaustion. He regarded the silence and let himself fall on the damp ground. It was dark, he didn't know where he was. And it was cold. He took deep breaths to steady himself. He was still in shock. He didn't understand what happened He didn't know if he was safe or if the steward was just around the corner bidding his time, stalking him and ready to pounce. He whimpered but he was far too drained to run. He tamed his heart, trying to slow its pulse and control his breathing. The seconds ticked and he was able to finally acclimate himself in the dark. It was an unoppressive presence. He took a few more fortifying breaths to tell himself he escaped.

Well, if he was honest with himself, he’d say he was still a bit terrified. He was only relatively safe. He didn’t know where in the Old Woods he was. He could make out shapes in the dark, but there was no moon. He stared at the stars and tried to find his bearings. He knew he needed to move. But he knew he’d go mad trying to navigate an area he really didn’t know. Where should he go? What should he expect? He could call for Shadow, but he was loathed to utter any noise that might compromise his position. There was a sense of need to start his journey. He remembered the prophecy he carried with him. It hinted on some kind of apocalyptic event. Perhaps he was needed to help stop it. Although he didn’t know how.

He huffed, frustrated at the riddles and began telling himself that he really ought to start moving. He brought his hands on his lap and noticed that he was still clutching the knife the nuns had given him. He was given very little instruction but he was told to find the next stones. He wondered where they would take him. But he was growing wearier as his body began acknowledging his battered muscles. He remembering crashing into brambles and fallen trees. Now that he had time to think of his actions, he was thankful and surprised to find himself alive and not a heap at the bottom of a cliff somewhere.

He stood and righted his clothes and his pack with Sister Theresa’s sack hastily stuffed into it. He’d look into it when there was more light to see. The knife he strapped to his boots where his old dagger once nestled in. The naked blade was sharp and he couldn’t help wonder whose blood had seeped into it before his. It was a ritualistic blade for sure. He stopped himself. He’d only have nightmares if he didn’t keep those thoughts at bay.

He vaguely remembered being told that the mist would lead him to the next boulder. He concentrated and glanced around the dark space by his feet and now that he knew what he was supposed to be looking for, he found it. The fog had a slight blue twinge. He tracked where the light glowed brightest, his eyes slowly adjusted. He stared at the glowing mist and upon further inspection found it moving. It was smoothly flowing over the grass and stones about his feet. There was no wind, just the general cold the moonless night had brought. Still a little lost, he followed the current, glad to at least have a direction to follow. He wasn’t scared anymore, although he should have been, but he didn't want to think yet. He needed to move, despite the aches. He'll do the thinking in the morning where sunlight would at least give him some semblance of sanity.

His feet stumbled a little over roots and rocks the mist had hidden but he kept upright, wondering how far he’d gone. Only then did he notice the flickering flames, dispersing slowly by his feet into the low blanket of fog around his feet. It was the same red fog that had slithered from his ankles before he bolted into the trees. He fretted only for a bit before deciding to slip towards it. Considering his history, his actions should have been to skitter _away_ from the flames licking up (but not burning) a path, for him to follow. But his instincts told him it posed no harm and a part of his brain, the part slowly sinking to accept the whole ineffability of the last few hours, told him he was supposed to **_play with Fyre_** , whatever that actually meant. The sentient flames lead him towards a brook, seemingly stopping for a moment. Waiting. He still did not understand, and he did not try to. Instead he followed his body’s needs and knelt to give himself a fortifying drink and washed his hand of the dried-up blood and dirt. He rummaged around his pack for something to cover the wounds with. When he was done, the flames twitched then flowed once more to lead him back before fading into the dark.

He didn't know how long he walked but as the sky started turning pink, he could see the faint outline of another boulder in the brightening distance, taller than the one by the nunnery's garden and right in the middle of a simple clearing, grass twinkling with dew. At its foot was a familiar bundle of grey furs patiently watching him, tail sweeping the ground betraying its otherwise stoic demeanor. When he finally reached the stone, Shadow jumped to circle around his legs and urged him forward, nuzzling his boot. He understood and took out the knife. The blade was a dark obsidian, looking sharper in the light of day.

Ash looked towards the boulder finding that the large slab was propped up by a pile of smaller ones behind it. His palm still stung from the first wound, but it was a minor ache compared to the encompassing exhaustion he felt. Before losing his resolve, he unwrapped his palm and swiped the blade over the skin to make another gash running beside the previous one and pressed it on the cool surface. He felt a thrum of power, an acknowledgement. He glanced around the clearing and breathed in the morning air. He had been walking all night, blatantly ignoring his screaming legs. He felt it was time to rest. He hid the knife and leaned against the slab letting its shadow crawl over him. He lowered himself for a nap, easier now with Shadow’s warmth a grounding presence on his lap.

  


  


Ash woke just after noon where the sun had been steadily warming his chest. He breathed in the leafy scents taking his time to wake up properly and letting the events of the night before buffer back into his consciousness. He could have considered the whole thing a dream, him still wandering the In-Between with Shadow, had it not been for the two little lines marring his palm. He's not one for witchcraft. But he understood magic, that which is tied to the earth – the whole give and take aspect at least. Well, a few drops of blood for safe passage through the woods wasn’t as morbid as it sounded. The wounds had closed and he knew it'd take a few days to heal properly. But he was not complaining when he was safe from Gabriel. Then he remembered the nunnery.

He let his head fall to his knees and let his tears fall, Shadow’s steady breathing at his side for comfort. He was scared for them who did nothing but welcomed him. They may not have been proper nuns, the knife rested heavily by his calf, but they were good and kind to him. All he could give them was his trust that they led him on the right path. To distract himself, he unpacked the sack he was given and was on the verge of tears again when he saw a few loaves of bread and biscuits in Sister Mary’s favorite tin. He enjoyed a filling lunch and told himself he’d close his eyes for an hour more before he resumed his trip.

Ash snorted awake to Shadow’s whining. He found the animal crouched at the edge of the clearing flat on its stomach and head in its paws. “Shadow? Are you alright?” he asked slowly, unsure of the animal’s distress.

In answer, he saw a large black snake crawl towards them, its golden eyes boring into his own blue ones. Stunned, he did nothing else but watched the snake turn towards the wolf and leveled its head to stare the animal down. It didn’t run nor attacked the snake, just cowered like a child being reprimanded. Ash felt rather than saw the serpent sigh and immediately Shadow’s tail wagged and licked the snake’s face.

Ash heard himself cry out making both Shadow and the snake look at him. He was afraid it would have struck the wolf but it simply looked mildly annoyed. He gulped and tried to will his heart back to normal. There doesn’t seem to be any danger. And to be honest, the more he looked at the two, it was as if they were already acquainted. The snake had slithered nearer to the wolf and draped itself unto its back, and Shadow stayed still, patiently waiting for it to settle before trotting over to Ash.

“Is that a new friend, then?” his voice wavered slightly. It was a very unusual scene. Then again, a lot of the things he’d experienced after leaving Gabriel’s keep had decidedly been unusual. What was one more to add to the growing list. He resolved to accept the situation and ask no questions.

The snake settled its head between Shadow’s ears to look him over. He lowered himself to the ground for a better look. He was fascinated with its underbelly, a brilliant red, as red as the sentient flames he had followed the night before.

“Clearly, I am not in my right mind,” Ash whispered to himself. “But…” he cleared his throat to raise its volume and faced the serpent’s golden stare.

“Er… hullo,” he started. The serpent merely flicked its tongue out at him. “Yes, well, seeing as you’ve made yourself comfortable, I believe I should ask if you’d like to come with us?” he chuckled, sounding a little bit hysterical. “We’ll be meeting with a witch!” he clapped his hands but even he winced at the sound. The serpent simply lowered its head back into the grey furs and Shadow, tongue lolling, looked up at him expectantly.

“Right, that’s that I guess,” he stood to collect his things and let the wolf lead him on. The shadows lengthened and he felt the shift of power in the air around them. He could feel the energy closing in on one nearby point – the snake. It had had slithered off Shadow’s back as the sun had set but kept up a good pace with them. He rubbed his eyes as he watched the snake’s edges blur and its underbelly, of what he could see of it, burned bright. It looked more like a burning rope as it stopped to coil itself as twilight fell.

“It was you last night,” a statement rather than a question. Ash was surprised at his own calm, he had probably finished off his supply of shock for the rest of his mortal life. The flames burned bright then disappeared. But he felt its presence nearing him. He could see a vaguely long shadow stopping at his heels then slowly wound around his legs, then waist, finally stopping around his shoulders. He stood still. It was a peculiar feeling. There was weight, but no corporeal form. _Goodness, if I wasn’t mad before, I certainly must be now,_ he told himself as he felt nonexistent muscles grip him. He was saved from his spiraling thoughts by Shadow’s bark. The wolf had bounded on further but was trotting away from the blue mist.

“Off hunting then? Alright. Mind how you go!” he called at the retreating bushy tail. “It’s just you and I, then. Shall we?” he asked the dark mass at his shoulder. He felt a gentle squeeze and sighed. _Am I really already getting used to this?_ he cried internally, but plowed on.

  


  


Ash reached the fourth monolith as the as sun peaked behind the mountaintops. As his routine, he let his bloodied hand meet its smooth face and wait for the resulting acknowledgement. He had felt well rested the day before and didn’t want to waste more time than he should. Even with his passenger, he was able to march solidly towards and then pass the third stone. It was easier thanks to the path and the company. The only eventful part of the journey was watching the snake firm on his shoulders as the sun began its ascent. He wondered vaguely how he’d be able to return to normal human interactions after all he’d gone through.

He huddled as close to the stone as possible for much needed rest. It had sunk a little ways into the dirt, a shallow furrow hidden underneath. It looked like it had once been a river but had dried. It sported low lying bushes and a bed of clover. Ash tested the stone as extra precaution. The clover looked inviting but a looming boulder was not. The snake had slinked up the rock-face to bask in the light and Shadow laying in his own sunny spot. He stuffed his pack just beneath the underbrush and settled himself for a nap. It was late in the afternoon when he came to, groaning, throat thick with sleep. He pushed himself to stand. He needed water and food to keep his energy before resuming his trek.

The wooded area was perpetually cool and dim. He left his pack beneath the rock to look for a stream with Shadow, noticing his movements, trailed behind. The snake was still sunning itself but he could see its tongue flicking idly and understood it was awake but didn’t want to come along. The woodland was eerily calm. He could hear just the faint titter of birds.

He heard flowing water somewhere and followed it. He saw the stream he was looking for but was more delighted with the apple tree looming over it. It was leaden with fruit. It’s been a while since he’d had a good apple. He took a quick drink and readied himself for the climb, it had grown tall to reach the sunlight. He settled himself on one of the sturdier branches, and plucked the nearest apple. He dusted it off on his sleeve before taking a satisfyingly crisp bite. He closed his eyes to savor the sweet taste. When he opened them, his jaw dropped. There just a stone’s throw away was a road.

“Shadow!” he called to the lounging wolf beneath the tree. “That road over there must be the southern trade route. We must nearly be near our destination!” He plucked a few more apples to hide in his coat pockets as snack for the night ahead when he heard distant hoof-beats. He froze but collected himself, he was too far from the road and hidden effectively by leaves, so wouldn’t be seen.

He could see the horse stop on the road before him, the rider turning to look back from where they came from, panting. The animal was a beautiful chestnut but the man atop looking harried in the failing afternoon light. Neither rider or animal seemed pleased. The horse pawed the ground restlessly and the rider tried to steer it forward. The next minute, he cried out, a pained sound, and fell to the ground. The horse, in its agitation, ran off, freed from its owner. The rider held a fist towards the retreating beast, but stayed slumped on the ground.

Ash watched as the man struggled to twist his body, and there! An arrow lodged in his thigh. The rider’s blood pooling underneath him. He hadn’t seen where it came from, until a second one whizzed by barely missing the man's torso.

_Bandits!_ Ash’s mind shouted. He must be in bandit country. Before he could flee, he saw a new figure approach the rider. It was an archer, bow at the ready and facing the rider. He was the attacker. Ash peered cautiously through the foliage, trying to get a better look. He was lean, tunic and breeches impossibly black. A quiver full of arrows strapped on his belt and resting on his hip. He had emerged from the shadows on the other side of the road. Two other figures pushed past him to leer over the dying man. The shorter of the two stabbed the rider but then turned on the archer, who looked uncomfortable standing at the side.

Ash watched fascinated as the men started to turn their weapons on the archer. They looked to be having an argument but Ash could only make out faint voices and no words. He gasped as he watched the two men attacked the archer who swayed to avoid the blades sent to slice him open. It was an awkward dance but successfully able to let him slip past the two and through the trees on Ash’s side. The other two men shouted and swiped blindly catching the archer’s side but it did not deter him from slipping into the darkening cover of trees. The other two scrambled to follow. The last Ash had seen of the archer, his hat had fallen from his head and revealing a flash of bright red hair.


	9. Hitting the Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds himself running from his fellow Hunters. He lost his quiver. He holds his last arrow. He throws a prayer to someone for a miracle. He was sent an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley POV!

Crowley had been impatient. It was another one of _those_ jobs. He thought that by joining the Hunter’s Guild, he’d mostly be hunting – catch any stray animal that happened to unfortunately cross his path. He’d become very good at it. He was proud of his archery skills despite what the others said. He kept his arrows straight. He was quick enough to strike. He did not leave the forest empty handed. _This_ , however, was a very different kind of hunting. Somewhere along the years, the Hunter’s Guild became the Assassin’s Den. He couldn’t blame them really. Pelt was worth nothing to a life. Then again, a few gold coins were hardly enough payment to kill. And kill he had. Not one but many over the years. But each job never failed to make him gag. It took him years to plan out his “retirement” from the Guild. He only needed to finish the job at hand to follow through on it.

He had taken one of the taller oaks along the road as his vantage point. He eyesight was pretty good despite his eyes’ unique appearance – yellowish with slit pupils. The midwives said he was cursed. The witches said it was a sign that he was chosen for something great. He wasn’t sure if that something was good or bad, but based from what he’d done so far, he was practically a demon. He stared out towards the open road and spotted the oncoming group of travelers.

“They’re coming!” he called out to the two figures lurking somewhere below him. Hastur and Ligur were one of more enthusiastic members from the Guild. Their bloodlust was palpable from the gleam in their eyes.

“Better not miss this time,” Hastur, the taller of the two, cried out. He had matted white hair and soulless black eyes. He was a fairly good assassin. No one could find him wherever he hides. Crowley believed it was because he smelled too much like refuse that people turn away to escape the stench before they catch a glimpse of him.

“Aww, I thought you like seeing them squirm?” They did, he knew, and although he hated dealing the killing blow, Crowley found the torture worse, unless the target was a right bastard who deserved it.

“I do!” came a cackle. That was Ligur, inspecting his cutlass. Unlike Hastur, he was shorter but stockier. He had short-cropped hair and dark skin. Pretty good camouflage in the shadowy corners where he mostly hid. Being able to become invisible was a requirement for the Guild. Crowley himself sported very dark clothing, but he made sure they were very stylish and clean. The only pop of colour in his wardrobe was his red hair, which he had to hide beneath a black bycocket which also served to keep his eyes in shadow and hide their peculiarity.

The men on the ground strode closer to the road, eager to carry out their assignment. Crowley sighed. Their target wasn’t that bad. A lovesick youth that climbed up the wrong balcony. The lady’s father was rich enough to have him wiped off the face of the earth. He readied his bow. They needed to break up the party. It was a delicate situation. The harvest season was starting and the roads were getting busier, although they were promised that this would be the last group for the day. There were merchants who paid them a great deal to let their wares pass uneventful. Beel would kill him if there were too many casualties.

The travel band had two large carts, followed by a carriage and five other individuals on horseback. They were after the poor sod at the left-most edge with the chestnut mare. He had no wares of his own but was needed at the south ports to negotiate sales for his father. At least that was what they were told. He’d been boxed by his father far too many times while asking where said information had come from. Needless to say, he learned to keep his mouth shut.

He waited for both men to fall into position. As Hastur gave the signal, he notched an arrow and aimed at the foremost cart’s horses. The animals were the easiest to frighten. He shot one in between them, making them whiny. He quickly fired another one that caught in between the driver’s legs, making him shout. Two of the riders swiftly took up positions on each side of the second cart, one rode to the first and was trying to calm the horses. He sent off a few more arrows to prolong the traffic. The other riders, including their target went to the carriage at the end.

Hastur and Ligur were already holding their slingshots. Hastur shot first to startle the chestnut and send it running forward. Ligur was stationed a little further up the road to urge the horse forwards, away from the others. Not very subtle, Crowley thought. The horse’s rump was large. An easy target. Meanwhile he was stuck at the top of a tree peering at targets only as tall as his little finger. Yet, they’d be preaching of their impeccable aim.

He shot a few more arrows towards the party at the back. No one would get hurt but they were already edging their vehicles into a retreat. He slithered down to a lower branch but made sure he kept their target in sight. He finally had the horse slowing down. He notched one arrow more and sent it towards the man’s thigh. He felt the arrow slide across his finger and let the string’s quivers run down his arm. His aim was true, that was the only truth he could ever hold on to in his life, when all else went careening out of control.

He heard a cry of agony, the tell-tale sign of his perfect hit. He let himself fly from one branch to the other, a vague saunter down towards the ground. He then sprinted towards their target, hearing the heavier foot falls of Hastur and Ligur behind him.

He saw the rider twist himself, trying to stand. _He’s got guts_ , Crowley thought, stopping to shoot once more as a warning to the rider to stay where he was. The man stilled as the shaft just slightly scratch his chest. He reached him first. He had already lost the horse. It would be somebody else’s property by morning.

“Yeah, sorry about that mate,” he drawled and gestured towards the man’s thigh. “Business, you understand.”

“Business?” the man spat at him.

The other two Hunters reached them and pushed Crowley aside. He gladly stepped away from the three, leaning against a wide tree trunk and searching the other side of the forest for something else to stare at. He couldn’t stop the voices from reaching him however.

“We were told you overstepped your welcome,” Hastur began. “We’re here to remind you the girl’s off limits.”

“The old man sent you, then?” he heard the rider say. “Why don’t you tell him his threats won’t be enough to keep me away.” He took a quick glance and found his colleagues’ blades already at the man’s throat. Crowley wondered if he ever acted that thick-headed. _Probably did_ , he concluded. He just had a knack for quick escapes.

“I think you don’t understand,” Ligur countered. “We’re not here to take messages. We’re here to take your life.” He speared the man’s heart with his cutlass and pulled it out at a leisurely pace. Thankfully the screams died off quickly. Crowley felt the customary nausea build in his throat.

“You’re losing your touch, Crawly,” Ligur faced him. He quickly schooled his features to look unaffected.

“It’s Crowley, remember?” he gripped his bow tighter. They never did accept him as his father’s replacement. He was glad, but that farce of a name was there to remind him he would never reach the same skill level. They called him nothing else no matter his insistence.

“No,” Hastur stepped to flank his friend. “There was only one Crowley, and that’s not you.” The archer stiffened. Something was wrong. It wasn’t their usual after-job ribbing. There was something nasty in the air, aside from Hastur’s usual stink. He backed up slowly, and swore when he bumped into the tree behind him.

“You haven’t been very helpful lately,” they took on their fighting stance, he notched an arrow. “And it’s not really fair that you get a share of the gold when you’ve been too lazy to do your job properly.”

“The whole assignment went off without a hitch, right? Why don’t we just go back to the lodge and settle this with Beel,” he was rambling now, grasping at straws. He needed to find an escape route. Or at least give himself enough distance to fully utilize his weapon. “If you really hate me, we could always go to the Dark Council and let them decide.”

“Oh, Beel and the others don’t need to know,” Ligur sneered at him. It didn’t improve the man’s face, not one bit. Hastur struck first. But Crowley wasn’t wiry for no reason. He slid his body to the side and the blade hit the tree. Ligur didn’t waste time and made to stab him as well. But again, he dodged the attack. He wriggled in between a few more swipes until he managed to bolt between them. Hastur made a mad swing which struck his belt but Crowley didn’t look back. He ran towards the inviting dimness of the Old Woods. Not many were welcome there, but the Hunters weren’t scared easily and once in a while, they would venture into the dark – to hide or to hunt. Crowley had lived most of his young life in the woods and knew more about it than the others but he was not hopeful that they would daintily take a step on the grass, yelp, then back off.

As he ran through the brambles, his hat was yanked off and he felt his quiver snap loose from his belt. He cursed to himself. He could hear the other two floundering on the same thickets to close their distance, he’ll have to go back later. Unfortunately, he’s left with just one arrow for his bow, but had two birds to target. The dagger strapped to his thigh won’t hold out to his pursuers’ cutlasses. Besides, he was never a hands-on fighter. He strikes from an innocuous distance whenever possible, far from where the blood could reach him.

It was getting darker by the second. He heard a howl somewhere. He scowled. Wolves were the last things he wanted at that moment. He ran faster, more on instinct and barely registered where he was going. His foot slipped and he fell face-first into a glen. He threw his arms up to save his bow and remaining arrow, hoping he didn’t break his nose but thankful his weapons were intact. A second later, Hastur and Ligur were at the top of the shallow incline looking down at him. Both were panting but sneering at him like the trapped animal that he was. They made their way towards him and Crowley scrambled to get back on his feet.

“Come on guys, is this really necessary?” Both men’s grins only grew wider. He gulped down the panic rising in his throat. He hung his bow over his shoulders but could only grip his single arrow in one hand, the other fumbled for his dagger. Two sharp points are better than one. They were too close. They would slice through him instantly before he could draw the bowstring, and he rather liked being alive. Though, for how many more minutes, he wasn’t sure. No matter how strong his arms were, it was a two-to-one match and they were burlier. For Go-, for Sa-, for s _omebody_ ’s sake, he needed a miracle.

He was not going to go out without a fight however and squared his shoulders. They did the same. But before anyone could move, they heard footsteps running towards them. Seeming like they planned it, Hastur stepped behind his cohort and faced the direction where the sounds came from. Ligur kept a close watch on Crowley. They knew he could be slippery. Crowley did the same, not even daring to blink.

The footsteps stopped and from his periphery, Crowley could make out a cloaked figure emerging from the glen’s edges. He couldn’t help but wince internally. Whoever it was, poor bloke had gotten himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Much like him.

“Who is it?” Ligur asked. Crowley could see the gears working behind the shorter man’s eyes. They could kill him then the new-comer. But there was a risk the guy could be armed and help. He hoped for the later.

The figure walked closer and Hastur snorted loudly. “Looks like someone out for a walk and got lost,” he replied. “Looks too short and soft to be a threat. Hair’s braided too. Might be a girl.”

“If it is maybe we could... celebrate with her later on,” Ligur was still watching Crowley and his sleazy grin made his blood boil. He inched back at a snail’s pace. If the stranger didn’t have a weapon, his presence could be a distraction. And as if on cue, they heard him call out.

“Er… hello? I believe I’m lost? Can you men please tell me where the nearest village is?”

Crowley groaned. The voice had too much warmth in it, probably no help in combat. But he saw Ligur glance behind him, too curious for his own good. He took his chance and leaped back. Ligur caught the movement and sliced at the area where his stomach was, just a moment before, but his luck faltered as he felt his back burn. He ignored it and climbed the nearest tree. Its height would be a great advantage for attacks but would also buy him enough time to make a plan to save both him and stranger. He won’t leave them to die if he could help it.

“Shit! This is your fault!” Ligur pointed towards the stranger before stalking to guard the red-head.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” the new-comer remarked as he walked closer.

“Is that a joke?” Hastur gaped at the intruder, they were doing bloody murder and he was simply huffing in displeasure. “I don’t like jokes.”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure you don’t,” the stranger’s tone had changed from innocent to glacial and from his back he produced a long dagger.

At the sight of the blade, Hastur recovered. He smirked and readied his own weapon. “You’re willing to fight with that little thing? Wel – “ he wasn’t able to finish the word as the stranger attacked. The taller man was too shocked that he almost forgot to block. The stranger kept a barrage of wild swipes and thrusts, barely giving the cutlass a chance to retaliate.

On the other side of the glen, Ligur was clawing his way up the tree. Slashing all the while at Crowley’s retreating feet. It was an awkward climb but Crowley was being patient. He had one shot, literally, and he had to make sure it was enough. He could hear the meeting of steel against steel but he forced himself to focus on his own dilemma, hoping the stranger wasn’t getting too beat up. He snapped off a long branch nearing the top, making sure to wrap his legs on a sturdier one, and turned his attention back to Ligur. He could see the man’s eyes falling on the bough.

“Ya know,” he drawled. “Wasn’t very clever of you to follow me up here,” he sneered and smacked the makeshift pole hard on Ligur’s hand, dislodging the cutlass from his grip and had him thrashing to regain his balance. Crowley brought the branch close and have his attacker hold on. But before the man could register what he reached out to grab, Crowley pushed. The falling body snagged on the lower branches but kept tumbling down, many snapping under its weight. It was a good twenty feet drop and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief when Ligur didn’t move after a minute’s observation.

Only then did he permit himself to watch the fight at the ground level. To his surprise, it was Hastur that was backing up from the onslaught of swings from a dagger only half the length of his blade. He managed to jump back as the stranger made a backhanded blow towards him. The taller man cursed and ran towards the edge of the clearing only to be blocked by a growling wolf.

“I surrender!” he squealed dropping his weapon. The stranger quickly came forward to prick the other man’s back and nudged him away from the fallen blade. Crowley jumped down and ran to pick it up, more to keep it away from his old guild-mate than to use it. He was useless with a dagger and more so with a sword.

Hastur’s stricken face then fell on Ligur’s immobile corporation. “Wha-what the hell?!” he screamed. “How could – he’s done nothing to you!” Crowley’s face couldn’t have looked more incredulous.

“Yet,” the stranger muttered. He still had him at knife-point and that brought the two men back to attention. “Look, you did say you surrender,” he said louder. “So, I suggest you scuttle off before I let my friend,” he nodded to the wolf, hackles up, “turn you into his dinner.”

The assassin gulped and slowly turned as he backed away from the glen. Then he shot Crowley a glare. “I’ll get you for this!” he spat before running off. The stranger laid a careful hand on the wolf to keep it from running after him. _Perhaps he should be thankful there were wolves about_ , his giddy mind supplied. He shook his head then turned to face the stranger, holding out his hand for him to shake as an introduction or a thanks or both. But the movement only startled the animal beside them and snapped at him. He screamed, almost a yelp (though he would never admit to it), and fell on his rear, long limbs flailing.

“Oh, dear, are you alright?” the stranger said over him blocking the wolf from getting closer. He heard a faint ‘ _Hush, Shadow._ ’ over the roaring in his ears. He was also painfully aware that he was blushing and it would still be visible in the dimming light.

“So sorry about that,” the voice was soft and light. “Need a hand?” He stared up from the plump arm waiting by his side and followed it up towards its owner’s face. His breath caught as he beheld white, almost glowing curls and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have more fun writing Crowley POVs to be honest. But the mood will be lighter now that they've found each other. The banter alone is enough to make me grin, and the comfort... There will be comfort to make up for the awful beginnings. Stay tuned for that! <3


	10. An Arrangement

“I can stand by myself thanks,” the red-head said stiffly. Ash kept his mouth shut. He was beginning to regret helping him out, especially if the man would keep snapping at him like that. He did not even offer a thank you. He normally would have had more patience, but fighting off a cutlass-wielding brute using only a dagger had him doubling his efforts, and for the second time in a few months he had seen a man die – speaking of which…

“Alright then,” he saw the man flinch as he pulled back his hand. “I’d actually like to introduce myself properly, but would you mind terribly if we could continue our chat somewhere else?” he glanced at the lifeless figure splayed on the grass.

“Er… y-yeah, sure,” the archer stammered, looking anywhere but him and absentmindedly running his hand on the bow still slung over his shoulders. “Lead on…”

Ash hummed. The man was definitely dangerous, but there was something about him that pulled him in. And he was amazed at himself for trusting him enough to turn his back on him. He glanced back briefly to find the archer a good seven feet behind him, watching Shadow anxiously even though the wolf was giving him a wide berth.

“He won’t bite, well, not anymore. You startled him, is all.”

The man snorted. “You do understand that’s a wolf, yeah?”

“Of course,” he grinned and let his hand scratch the animal’s head. Shadow wagged his tail and ran farther up the path stopping now and again to look back at them. The archer simply gave them an exasperated sigh but followed anyway. “I’m Ash, by the way. And you are?”

“Crowley.”

“Ah, nice to meet you.”

Crowley sniggered. “I can’t exactly say our meeting was _nice_.”

“Oh, I don’t think it was that bad. We both made it out alive, didn’t we?”

“Huh. I guess…” Ash could feel there was more to the man’s reply and waited.

“Wha – _who_ are you… exactly?” he scratched the back of his head, the strands of his short red hair spiking further.

“I beg your pardon?” Ash saw his eyes were blown wide, and although it was dark, he could make out the snake-like quality of his eyes. He wondered what they looked like in the light.

“Ngk. Well, you know,” Crowley waved his hands noncommittally. Ash stopped to look at him with a questioning brow and waited for him to catch up before resuming his walk. He made a few more unintelligible noises then burst out, “You definitely just saw people trying to kill me.” The man frowned. Ash wanted to say he also saw him kill a man and fatally wounded another but he thought it was probably best to keep those tidbits unspoken for the time being. The red-head looked jumpy.

“I am just a traveler who tries being a good Samaritan along the way. If I made a mistake in helping you, I apologize.” The archer just blinked at him, his face contorting with an emotion that was unfortunately unreadable in the evening light. They stayed silent for the rest of their walk.

Shadow led them back to the stones where Ash had hidden his pack then promptly jogged off again to hunt. The snake was nowhere to be found, but he knew it would show itself sometime during the night or the morning. The gently flowing fog of blue reminding him that he had a purpose. It gave him a little normalcy after the excitement of the afternoon. He motioned for Crowley to sit by the stone slab but the man kept upright.

“Er, you probably should know…” His eyes shifting warily from the stones to his face a couple of times.

“The stone is magic?” Ash offered.

“What? Oh. You knew that already? Do you have….?” he gestured to his hands with slicing motions.

“Oh, yes, but I only have four at the moment. And I don’t really know how many more I need.” The topic seemed to have a grounding effect on Crowley and removed a bit of the tension between them.

The man looked pensive. “I think you still need three more. The stones are gates. You open them with the blood offerings - giving them a part of yourself. By the end of the ritual, the Old Woods would deem you worthy and always welcome you, should you need to come back." He sounded wistful and Ash could only nod politely. "My mother talked a fair bit about it. Witch’s tales and all that.” He finally walked over and sat down only to hiss as his back hit the cool surface. Ash hurried over, wondering if the magic had harmed him.

“I’m alright!” the archer said quickly, sitting up straighter. “Forgot I got hit at one point,” he winced as he lifted his arm to unsling his bow and feel the skin of his lower back.

“Would you like me to look it over?” Ash knew he had enough bandages in his pack if it was a serious injury.

“I swear it’s fine, see?” Crowley held up his hand. It only showed a smattering of dried blood and Ash relaxed. At least he wasn’t bleeding. “Just a scratch I think, didn’t even hurt on the way here.” But he glanced back, the blue glow showing the curiosity plain on his face. “You don’t really need to help a total stranger, although it’s possibly a little too late for me to say that.” He was given a tiny smile and he couldn’t help but feel warmed by it.

“Alright then, but at least let me give this back to you,” he produced, from behind the same bush where he hid his own things, a quiver full of arrows with sleek black feathers.

“My arrows!” This was the first enthusiastic reaction Ash got from him so far. “You’re an angel, you are.” Crowley scrabbled and kissed his quiver in front of him. Ash suppressed a giggle. The red-head looked ever so endearing. Until he remembered how those arrows flew to impale a person’s thigh just that afternoon.

“Right, sorry for being rude,” he said, retying the quiver to his belt. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly yet.” He held out a hand, grinning openly. Ash took the proffered thanks mirroring the grin. “And to make it up to you, I can keep you company until you get to the last stone. It leads to a witch’s cottage and from what I remember she can get a little testy.”

“You’ve been?”

“I was just a kid back then, so maybe she changed?” he scratched his chin.

“Human company does sound nice,” he heard Crowley scoff.

“Oh, I don’t know. I heard wolves make great conversationalists,” he winked and Ash couldn’t help but laugh. “Besides, I’m not ‘nice’ really, you should know I’m taking advantage of you right now,” his teasing tone took on a guilty one at the end but Ash pretended not to notice. He was also glad he didn't have to be alone. He probably wouldn't be able to bear the nightmares. He shrugged off the images his mind produced.

“My, how wicked, of you,” he parried playfully instead. He checked his things and began his walk, he turned to give Crowley a smile when he followed.

They ambled along amiably until the archer broke the silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me questions?”

“Why should I?”

“Fair trade?”

“Hmmm. If it’ll make you feel better, don’t mind if I do,” he kept his tone light but felt his companion stiffen, he mulled over what he wanted to ask first.

“Do you live in trees?”

“What?!” Ash gave himself a satisfied smirk, looking over at the man’s gaping mouth. Clearly his question was not what Crowley expected.

“Well, from what I saw you were very good at climbing them. And I barely heard the leaves rustling, unlike your… opponent.” They’ve yet to discuss the other details of the evening and he’d toe the line very delicately to make sure that their playful mood wouldn’t be broken just yet.

He could see the man’s lips quirked upwards and he relaxed. “My father would leave me here to fend for myself a couple of times. To 'make me a better man', he said, but really, I think it made we wilder,” he snorted. “Or at least, less like him…” his tone dropped a bit but he recovered with a rejoining, “Anyway, found it was safer to sleep in the trees where the wolves couldn’t get to me easily. Easier when I was smaller. Getting a bit cramped now.” He extended his arms and flapping them to prove his point. Ash couldn’t hide his giggles then.

“Speaking of trees, though,” he said after Ash settled, “mind if we take a detour after we reach the next boulder? I have to check on something and grab a few things.”

“I don’t mind,” a tiny voice at the back of his mind said that he shouldn’t trust the man to take him somewhere alone. A bigger part was screaming that NOT trusting him was absurd, he had already bared his back to him. If he wanted him dead, he’s had a lot of opportunities to have done so already, but didn’t. Another part of his mind was making itself known. _It_ wanted to keep the man close, not knowing if more assassins were coming for him. _It_ wanted to keep him safe, protect him. He started to feel overwhelmed with that revelation, so, for the time being he told it to hush and went back to their conversation. “If you think it’s no trouble for me seeing your hidden treasure, that is.”

“It’s not treasure,” he snorted. “Just some clothes and other necessities I hid beforehand.” Ash pondered if there was more to the story. He was intrigued but of course, he won’t press.

They didn’t continue the conversation but the atmosphere they shared was comforting, unusual as it may have seemed… until his stomach growled.

* * *

Crowley was feeling out of sorts. He had volunteered to accompany a stranger he just met to see the witch in the middle of the Old Woods, and they had been talking… and he was _liking_ their talks, what little there was. What was worse was that he wanted to _start_ the chats. He was feeling something warm settle in his chest and wondered if he was actually already dead and he was making a friend, but in the afterlife. The glowing green fog blanketing their path was adding to the surrealism of the moment. He felt like floating and couldn’t seem to reign in his smiles. He _doesn’t_ smile. He was trying to shake off the feeling when he heard the rumbling.

“Sorry,” Ash chuckled shyly, clutching at his round belly, steps never faltered. Crowley’s breath left him again. Every time he heard the man laugh, he felt reality come undone. It simply did not fit with the steely eyed swordsman that scared off Hastur. He wouldn’t have believed anyone who said so if he himself wasn’t there to witness the whole thing. “I guess I had a little too much excitement and need a pick me up,” he continued and gave Crowley a sideways look. His lips were curving upwards and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Shall I tempt you to a midnight snack?” And from somewhere in the folds of his cloak, he brought out an apple with an embellished little flourish of his hands, like he was pulling it from thin air instead of a pocket.

He couldn’t tell what there was about the man that intrigued him, but it was like he knew there was a secret to him that he wanted to bring out. He was a mystery. He was strong but very soft. He spoke like a noble but his hands were calloused and although he had fair skin, it looked faintly tanned, but not as freckled as Crowley’s – someone who did manual labor a lot more than any nobleman would. And he was too kind to be human. In only a few short hours, Crowley found himself stricken by the need to tell the man his life’s story and receive comfort.

As he took the apple and gave it a good bite, something in him clicked. Like the fruit that brought the humans a one-way ticket out of Eden, Crowley found himself knowing that he would follow this angel wherever he goes. It also did not help that he felt very safe with him, sword skills notwithstanding. He groaned internally. He was _feeling_ things. Thankfully, Ash was busy with his own apple that he didn’t notice Crowley almost choke as he gulped from his sudden realization.

After he finished his snack, he ventured to say, “I can’t afford to go back, you know,” his voice was small. “I have no family to leave behind. No friends. Just the likes of... them. But, to be honest I was never really normal as their standards dictated. I thought after we finished with the bloke this afternoon, I could run off and leave them all behind.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” he asked, seeing another layer to peel off. “Don’t tell me you killed someone, too?” he doubted his own words, but everything that came out of the man’s mouth was far from his expectations that he wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

“What? No! Well. But, you see, I –“ he took a deep breath and Crowley could see him trying to reign in his stutters and fearful tone.

“I _know_ that look,” he said before Ash could continue.

“What look”

“Come off it! I mean I’ve seen that face a couple of times. Someone’s after you and you’re terrified," it was the same look his assignments wore. He always felt guilty for bringing someone that much fear. “Look, I’m not trying to pry, just an observation,” he said lamely. He didn't know who would have the man killed (or why). But the more he spent time with Ash, the more he believed it possible. It wasn’t because the man was nasty, he was well… perfect. And it was always the nasty ones that pay to kill the innocent, not the other way around.

He sighed. “You don’t need to tell me, but you know, I was thinking, since there are people here that want both of us dead, maybe we could keep each other company and watch over each other. An Arrangement if you will. Safety in numbers and all that.” He cringed as soon as he finished talking. Why did he sound so clingy? He’d only met the guy for a few fucking hours!

“You’re going south too?” Crowley probably imagined Ash’s hopeful expression.

“Don’t make it sound like I’m a bird. I’d rather say I was a cold-blooded snake looking to hide in an area with a more reasonable temperature. But yes, I am. I – “ he wondered how much information he could afford to air. He cleared his throat and decided to plow on. “The Hunter’s Guild, my old work place, has a truce agreement with the southern settlements. Don’t know how that happened really. I think they just wanted a fail-safe if a member just wanted to disappear. But of course, not many of our lot reach it. I’m sure Hastur’s gone and told the others that I’m on the run and I’d have a bounty on my head by tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear. We shouldn’t have let him go then.”

“No, that was the best course of action,” he rubbed his eyes feeling the weight of the afternoon crash down into him. “He’d likely tell that I wanted them both dead to get the gold to myself. Once they see him alive no one will believe him.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m a pretty good archer, and our kind know not to leave survivors,” he said darkly, hating how true the words were.

They stayed silent until they reached the fifth monolith, where the wolf was waiting for them. Ash’s offering done, he found a nearby felled tree and took the rest of his apples out from his cloak, gesturing to the other side of the log for him to sit.

Once they settled, he said, “You did just save my life, so if you’ll be fine with me tagging along…?” He trailed off. It wasn’t necessary to stay together. In fact, it was probably the most dangerous arrangement they could get themselves in. The hounds of hell – his old Guild mates – were on his heels. He let the question hang as they finished their nibbles. He might put him in harm’s way. _Again._ Crowley knew his faults better than anyone he had come across. And one of his most defining sins was his selfishness, right next to asking too many questions that could get him killed (literally, as evidenced by instances from his past). And he was being very selfish, hoarding this man’s time and companionship. But he didn't let guilt crawl all over him, not yet anyway. “It’d be less boring than walking alone.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, I think.” Ash said after a brief moment, then turned to smile at him. “Shall we get your things then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was writing this chapter, my brain was going ... "does it count as a meet-cute if they're talking over bodies they just killed together?"
> 
> I'll, er, let you decide on that one. XD


	11. The Other Half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's sanity is put to the test. Ash is very good at humoring things.

Crowley had tramped into the forest a number of times. He became a Hunter because of his father, but he learned hunting, tracking and basically surviving when he left him for days on end in the Old Woods. His old arrows he made himself – made out of wood he plucked from whichever tree would offer and the fletching from crow feathers he gathered from their nests. Although it took him far too long to fill his quiver, it wasn’t as if he was always in need of them. When his father brought him to the Guild, he had a ready supply from the resident blacksmith. He couldn’t argue that the barbed tips did greater damage than sharpened wood, but he wasn’t comfortable unless he could feel plumage brush past his fingers as he fires. It took him months to convince the man to prepare his arrows with crows’ feathers.

He’d rather use his arrows for hunting, though, rather than his erratic robbery and assassination shindigs. So, he created hideaways for him to escape to in between assignments. One such was where he and Ash were heading off to. He had hidden his supplies there just that morning. Time seemed to be moving rather fast now that he was on the run from the Guild. He sighed. There was time to worry in the morning.

He led his new acquaintance from one felled tree to another. He had mapped out his landmarks starting from the stones to his makeshift hideout. He was talking nonsense to the man, and it seemed he was intrigued with his anecdotes of the forest. He was explaining how he managed to ensnare a butterfly instead of a bird when he was younger. They reached a grove of trees just as he was telling him that he had no use for the insect and had let it go only to find its fellows swarming around him and landing in his hair.

“My mother would always smile at the memory,” he didn’t say he would remind her when he could whenever she had one of her sick spells. He looked around and finally remembered what they were supposed to be doing. He found it very easy to talk to Ash and forget himself, it was as if he slipped into a different universe where he was allowed to be happy. _Right_ , he thought, _that’s enough fantasizing_. He ducked into the circle of trunks and headed towards one which looked hollowed out, Ash following behind.

He took out his own dark cloak and a large satchel from within and checked its contents. “Aha!” he triumphantly brought out a wineskin of ale. “Drink, angel?” Apples and good conversation were good and all but now that he was feeling a little more relaxed, he thought he could use something that could offer up warmth after his ordeal. Ash’s eyes widened and Crowley cursed himself realizing he had let the nickname tumble from his mouth. He was being overly familiar. Then he saw him grin.

“It has been a while since I drank alcohol,” he replied primly despite already reaching out for the container. Crowley let out the breath he had held hiding it with a breathy chuckle. They sat beside each other on the mossy floor and passed the wineskin back and forth, taking slow sips, savoring the peace the night was offering. The morning seemed like it would bring out too many details that they both needed to talk about but would rather not bring forth until then.

“So… Ash,” he said, breaking the silence. The name did not sit well on his tongue. Like it wasn’t right for this mysterious being that put himself in harm’s way for a total stranger. “Is that for your hair, or for the tree?”

“Neither.” Ash said so softly it was like a whisper – a secret – that Crowley almost didn’t hear. He was about to press for more details when he heard a low hoot from somewhere behind them. They turned and there at the edge of their little copse was a white owl. Its feathers were glowing faintly and it hopped tentatively forwards, head tilting to the side, regarding them curiously. Its eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, pieces of the clear skies.

Crowley twisted his body in a languid motion to not startle the animal. His hips never did work normally. Without his quivered belt, his hips swung a little too far off. They said he was swaggering down streets full of himself. The fact was, he had spent so long having that weight on his side that he was unbalanced without it. Then again, he did like a little bit of attention now and again but only to catch the high of spurning them. He had enough of the people who preferred to watch his hips (or mentally weigh his coin purse) instead of actually taking to him like a person. He’d rather stay where the trees are tallest, stretching towards the sky that gave him the taste of freedom. That was how he noticed the owl, gleaming brighter than torch lamps, a beacon in one of his late-night wanderings. He had befriended it in very little time.

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” he smiled.

* * *

Ash was mesmerized, first by the owl, then by his companion. He looked at the Hunter as he cooed over the animal, body in a sinuous dance to get himself on all fours, lessening any jerky movements lest the bird take flight. He produced breadcrumbs from somewhere and left a trail of it towards them. Ash brought his attention back to the owl, with a mental shake of his head.

It was lovely and bright. It looked like it held its own light within its body. He understood that it was no ordinary animal. As it hopped nearer, it held his gaze. Blue met blue and a sense of knowing passed between them. It shuffled towards him and he gingerly offered his arm. The owl slowly traveled up his sleeve towards his shoulder.

“Hullo,” he whispered, craning to look at the bright bundle of feathers. He got an affectionate nip on his nose for it.

“Huh, looks like you can make friends with anyone,” Crowley mused aloud, not specifying if he was talking about the owl or Ash. The animal, though, remembering his presence jumped to the space between them, face full of anticipation. Ash watched as Crowley brought out a small loaf from his satchel and gave it to the fowl.

“Is that your pet?” he asked but the Hunter shook his head.

“Nah, found him up a tall tree one evening, feathers flashing like anything. Its talons were stuck in a hole, probably looking for grubs,” he stroked the messy tuft of downy feathers on its head as it nibbled on the bread. “I had to tug at the bark surrounding its foot and the branch fell away taking us with it.” He laughed softly at the memory, but Ash gasped. “A stronger branch caught us just below the one that broke,” he quickly assured him, then smirked. “Of course, we didn’t get out of there unscathed. He gingerly lifted the birds wing to show off, and it let him clearly distracted with the bread.

“Ripped a few feathers off. Still couldn’t fly even though it was a few months ago. I come every few days to check up on it. It made itself a nest here when we stayed around to heal its wing and my back. I had a large gash down my shoulder to my hip, but its healed already.”

“Is that why your hips looked unhinged?” the question falling from his lips before he could stopper his mouth shut.

“What?” Crowley gaped then gave him a knowing grin, and Ash realized he had been staring more than he should have.

He was spared the indignity of answering by a sudden blaze encircling the owl between them. Crowley yelped and stood to bat his cloak over the bird and extinguish the flames.

“WAIT!” he shoved him away, coming between him and the owl. Crowley growled and pushed himself up. Ash hastily restrained him, wrapping arms around him and whispered in his ear. “I know this will sound weird, but the fire won’t hurt it, I swear.” Crowley stilled and stared at him. They were so close he could feel their breaths mingling in the little space between their noses. He heard him gulp audibly and with a shaky breath, let his eyes wander to the bird. He pulled his arms back when he noticed the Hunter wouldn’t rush forward.

They both watched as the owl hooted happily, the tongues of fire lapping at its feathers. It ruffled them further to let the flames seep in-between the plumage. It tittered in contentment. Both humans looked fascinated, until the owl started screeching. Crowley moved as if to run over fearing it was pained but scrambled back as the fire seeped away from the bird and trained towards them as if retreating in fear.

Ash instinctively held his hands out to the flames. It curled around him instead, pouring upwards to circle his neck. He could see Crowley sprawled against the ground again, mouth frozen in a silent yell. His eyes widened further as the blaze snuffed itself out.

The owl kept shrieking and paced in front of them, face permanently planted towards Ash’s shoulders. It was an odd sight but Ash was unbothered by the view. What did alarm him was the slight trembling of the unseen weight around his neck.

He turned to the owl who had started flapping its flightless wings. Its feathers were ruffling in indignation, and legs stamping… well, if Ash was to be honest… cutely. He wanted to giggle at the sight but it was fuming at his snake. He really shouldn’t take sides, so with great effort, he schooled his face into a concerned one and dropped to his knees in front of the blustering ball of white feathers.

It plodded closer. The trembling increased and he could hear hissing by his ear. He shook his head and shushed it. The owl gave him an appraising look and finally lowered its wings, tucking them primly to its sides. It gave him a hoot, a confident note telling him to ‘go on.’

The blonde cleared his throat but couldn’t quite wrap around the words he needed to say. Nevertheless, he started with, “You must be an acquaintance of my friend here,” he knew that was an understatement if the bright orange flashes and the gleeful hoots of a few minutes ago were to be acknowledged. The bird gave him a terse nod. He was internally reeling at the responses. They were far more expressive than those of Shadow’s or the snake’s. Or perhaps it was because he was feeling a growing kinship with the bird.

“To be fair, I really don’t know what they did,” he continued. “But I am sure they are immensely sorry,” the hissing in his ears sounded irritated and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the same time as the owl’s. They considered each other again and he felt the tension ease off.

* * *

Crowley was having the strangest day of his life. It far surpassed being encircled by witches at the edge of the Old Woods or that day his father gave him a hug without pretense. He was rendered speechless as the flames covered Ash then disappeared, staggered at listening in on a conversation between a man and an owl, and incredulous as both exhibited identical expressions over the course of their chat.

He was going bonkers. The Old Woods must have finally unhinged him. Perhaps he was dreaming. Only logical explanation at that point. His brain was fizzling, emotions running amok. Until one surfaced to take claim of whatever mental or physical function he had. And it was annoyance.

He clung to the feeling to avoid facing the fact that he was raving mad.

He was annoyed that he almost died; that he will probably die anyway; that he had been scared by whatever entity had surrounded his owl, then his angel; that said owl and angel were having conversations without him; and that his sore arse was on the bloody ground, for the whatever-fucking time, **_again_**!

He felt ridiculous. The scene before him was ridiculous. The only thing unmoved by the whole situation was the wolf in the corner who was surveying the scene with an air of ‘not getting into that drama.’

He was spent. He groaned as he let his body flop the short distance to the fern-covered forest floor. He felt a prickling of magic somewhere near him and his eyes settled on a smoky outline slinking its way nearer. He spent too much energy trying to make sense of (and exasperated over) everything that he let whatever it was roll beside him.

He could feel frustration coming off it, too. He closed his eyes, tense muscles unwinding at the reassurance that at least he wasn’t the only one maddened over the night’s proceedings.

Ash was still fussing over the bird, fingers helping it preen and offering consoling words. He was at least thankful that he wasn’t expected to contribute to whatever in the discussion. At some point he must have dozed off. He felt the gentle nudge and a “Please wake up, you must see this,” from somewhere to his side. He slowly cracked his eyes open. From his vantage point he could see the sky lightening.

He sat up, Ash’s cloak falling off him. He blinked blearily at his makeshift blanket but before he could ask anything of it, he saw the same rope of fire the night before right next to him. It woke him up completely and was thankful he had enough restraint to not scream. Ash sat next to him, offering a steadying hand on his arm.\

“The transformation goes on for a while,” he said gently. “You don’t need to be afraid.” He gave him a small smile and Crowley found himself calming down. The white owl was prancing around the brightening flames, back to its excitable self, exuding white light from its feathers. The coils of fire started to take form into that of a snake with golden eyes. The owl spread out its wings welcoming it and the snake glided to twist itself around its fluffy body.

“Oh,” Ash sighed, squeezing his arm.

“What?”

“I feel love.” His other hand shot to his chest above his heart.

“Er… what do you mean love?” He could see Ash’s besotted look fixed on the two animals in front of them.

“I mean, that it’s the opposite of when you say ‘I don’t like you,’” he smirked.

“Well, I know that. But…” he gestured towards the animals.

“There are many forms of love besides the romantic, you know,” Crowley was treated to an eyeroll. He would have said it looked endearing, if it wasn’t aimed at him. “Loving someone doesn’t always lead to, er... reproduction,” he sighed.

He could do nothing but gape up at Ash. He felt his brain was only operating around half its normal rate. And due to last night’s experiences, he guessed it warranted a good melt-down. The morning’s surprises weren’t helping either.

“They have a few more minutes,” Ash continued. “Let’s leave them be for a while.”

“What do you mean?” he was definitely not fully functioning yet, but he stood to follow Ash snatching the cloak from the grass. “Oh, yeah. This is yours isn’t it?”

“Oh? Uhm, yes, sorry. I forgot about that,” He took the offered clothing. “You were shivering last night, or this morning, rather, and I thought you could use it.” Crowley was about to protest on behalf of his own serviceable robes but Ash prattled on, “I know you had your own but it wouldn’t have been warm enough to stop you getting the chills. Since I was already wearing mine, I thought it would do. You stopped trembling after snuggling into it so I was right.”

“Uh, yeah, guess that was a smart idea. So, thank you?” he was hesitant. He forgot what it was like to be cared for. He felt his chest constricting, though it didn’t feel all that bad.

Ash beamed. “You’re welcome.”

They heard the flapping of wings and turned to watch the snake retreat from the white owl. He seemed to be dissolving into misty puffs. He must have made a distressed noise as Ash quickly took his hand and squeezed. His other was at his back giving him soothing pats. “Sorry, I forgot to warn you that this might happen.”

“What _is_ happening?” he managed to keep his voice level. If Ash was calm, it must not be that big a deal. Of course, the man was also calm as he fought off Hastur, and he still might have been unfazed if Satan himself popped out of the ground. All his thought processes were getting skewed the more time he spent with the blonde.

“The snake takes on a physical form from dawn to dusk,” Ash started, in a speculating tone. “I wondered whether the owl did the reverse. And well…” he waved briefly. “I’m sure it will return to its animal form by sundown. But they have a presence. I’ve carried the snake before in its smoke form.”

“Huh…” was all the red-head could answer. He saw the wolf trot over to let the snake ride on its back, the luminescent mist hovering above them. Instead of working on the new information, he inspected his companion again from the corner of his eyes. Someone both _intelligent_ and strong meant he was a weapon. But he was running away so he probably didn’t want to be. But no matter how much evidence he had to parse about, he was no nearer to the angel’s identity.

He hummed and began readying his things. He decided to bypass the whole series of questions that had taken residence in his head for the time being. At least until he could be sure they would be safe from the other Hunters and Ash’s pursuers. He needed thinking time, and that was one thing they did not have at the moment. A walk might lessen the stress he had been put under. “I don’t know about you,” he said to Ash, who had followed his lead and retrieved his pack. “But I think we better get a move on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are going rather pear-shaped with the pandemic business, and there really is nothing we can do but stay in quarantine. I've been watching the news and it left me deflated (and unable to write) so I dove into my other hobbies for a while to distract myself. Hope everyone's staying safe as well!


	12. A Meeting with a Witch

The woods called them on. They walked with Shadow between them. They looked like a peculiar party in the early morning light had anyone came along to greet them. Crowley had been silent for the last few hours and Ash wondered if he had regretted coming along. Not everyone was as quick to embrace quirkiness as he. To make things a little less awkward he filled their silence with the mundane tasks he kept in the nursery. He chattered with a skill the nuns themselves would have been proud of.

“How long have you known the snake?” Crowley croaked after a while, cutting him off from his praise of perfectly mixed ink.

“A few days, why?”

“And you’ve seemed to be taking all this better than me,” he said grumpily. “Even with the owl and me almost literally living here where magic’s supposed to be strongest.” Ash followed every complicated twist on the other man’s face but couldn’t name its emotions besides annoyance.

“Well, I tend to not question things…” the red-head looked at him disbelievingly. The sunlight brightened in the last hour and he could see his eyes clearer. Perhaps he had stared at snake eyes far too long in the last few days that Crowley’s did not bother him. Although, to be fair, he wasn’t much bothered with the snake beside that first few minutes he met it. Mostly his problem now is that Crowley’s eyes looked far too much like honey that he thought he could far too easily fall into those golden pools. He stopped that train of thought and continued, “…much. I mean, I am curious but I simply let things flow. If the universe wants me to know, it will let me, through its may ineffable ways.”

“Alright, but I can’t be as stoic as that. I like asking questions.”

“Well, I do to. It’s just that I found that answers are harder to come by than questions. And from where I came from, people have no answer and shushes me when I so much as tack an inquisitive tone at the end of a sentence. Besides, most answers I can get through my own observations,” he propped his chin on a curled finger, gears almost audibly turning in his head. “Maybe I should say that I like asking questions but would not voice them readily. I only actively seek answers from reliable sources of which there are none for the moment, otherwise they might turn into gossip. Therefore, I am conserving energy and basking in the bliss of ignorance, for the time being at least.”

The Hunter clucked his tongue but dropping the subject, resigned at the logic of his answer but mumbling to himself nonetheless. “How about giving answers?” he asked more clearly.

That gave Ash pause. “So long as they are in my power… or not overly familiar, I can try.” He suspected it wasn’t just about the magic anymore, and he might regret giving away too much information. But it’s not like the Hunter would grab him and steer him back to Gabriel. He’s come too far to give up without a fight. The mountains are closer. All he needed was a way through and he’d be gone.

Despite the starter, he could sense the other’s hesitation. Crowley opened his mouth and felt himself flinch involuntarily. He hasn’t even asked yet. The red-head noticed and chose a topic he thought was safer. He pointed at Shadow instead. “I know that’s a wolf, almost took a bite out of me that first time.” He glared at the animal who turned its head to loll its tongue out at him. He stepped closer to Ash. I swear its waiting to nibble my arm off.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish,” Ash giggled letting his nervous heart calm down. Crowley could only stare at him. “Well, yes, I know he’s got the fangs and all but that wolf had led me through the In-Between up to where I am now. And keeping me in one piece, mind. It did take a bite at me when,” he heard Crowley start at this and rushed to explain himself. “Once! Just once! And it was my cloak, nothing else that got the bite. Anyway, it did save your life yesterday. So… there.” He exhaled slowly. It was a weak excuse but it was the truth. He very well couldn’t embellish that much further.

“No, you saved my life,” the red-head tried to be sarcastic but there was warmth in his voice.

“Team effort,” he said, deflecting. “Shadow was there for back up. It can be pretty scary when he needs to.” The wolf just wagged its tail in response but didn’t turn. It looked ready to bolt into the grasses, as it was wont to do, but was being very polite to its riders. Taking pity, Ash walked over to ask the snake if it would like to ride on his shoulders instead and the owl was also very much welcome.

“How can you carry a mist?” came Crowley’s voice.

“Well, I know they have a bit of weight on them,” the wisp of pale white shifted to hover one of the Hunter’s shoulders. He stilled momentarily and Ash stifled a giggle at the other man’s shock. “They may not have bodies but probably their mass of energy being concentrated in one place means that they are a little more solid than air. But they are never that heavy, really. It’s a simple thing to just… leave them to their own devices.”

“Huh…” The red-head fell silent a few minutes, pursing his lips in thought, and adjusting his walk looking unsure on how to accommodate his passenger. Ash halted briefly to let him catch up and he raised his eyes just as a sunlight flooded their path and illuminated what he had been trying to avoid staring at. His breath was whisked away.

“Honey,” he blurted out and blushed instantly as he realized he said the word out loud. He regretted the remark when Crowley pulled a hat from his bag, the same design as the one he lost the day before. It hid his eyes in shadow and they disappeared altogether as he hung his head and looked pointedly at the ground.

“Sorry,” he grimaced. He could usually filter the words coming out his mouth. “Please don’t hide them on my account. I-I think they’re lovely,” Ash couldn’t keep the sincerity from his voice. They were, as far as he was concerned.

He heard the other man spew out unintelligible words but slowly removing the bycocket and stuffing it back into his bag, the eyes watching him warily underneath long lashes. Ash beamed, thrilled at the small victory.

“People say it’s a curse,” the red-head started slowly. “Although witches from where I came from said it was a blessing. As if I would be handed some great boon and this is my payment to the spirits. Whatever it was I haven’t gotten it yet. Was almost killed, wasn’t I?” he scoffed. “Maybe they were talking about themselves, always asking for money or some other kind of payment for simple spells. I’m just glad we had coins to give them and they didn’t ask for my soul or my first-born child or something,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “There’s always a price,” he told Ash solemnly. “I get to see better in the dark though, but got a lot of stares afterwards. At least I know I was welcomed here,” he waved his hands encompassing their surroundings. “Better than where I stayed.”

“What did your family think?” he kept his voice low, more to ask himself, wondering how his own family would have reacted had he had a curse put on him. He started walking hoping the man would fell less anxious with a little more exercise. He was surprised his companion answering him.

“My mother only cared about me not dying in the forest and hired the witches,” the spite in his voice was directed at ‘witches’ but melancholic at ‘mother’ and Ash knew there was more of a story there, but he won’t pry. He’s got his own baggage he’d rather not unearth right then. “Besides, both my parents died a year after I got into the guild. I have a brother somewhere but who knows if he’s still alive?” He said it with an offhand expression but with a practiced air. As if he didn’t want to talk about them but needed to show he was unaffected.

“Oh…” Ash didn’t really know how to reply but thought the man’s honesty, or part of it, deserved his own. “My parents are gone as well. No brothers or sisters, though,” he was glad that he had none, it would have meant another would suffer alongside him. They both fell silent for a minute. “But of course, I have Shadow to keep me company now.” He always tried to make the most of what he had, especially as there wasn’t much of them.

“And the snake,” Crowley piped up, recovering his devil-may-care persona. The animal in question was hanging lax around his shoulders, clearly napping.

“Yes, quite a fetching scarf, don’t you think?” he said fondly and their conversations tapered off to mundane topics as they walked, which bothered neither but delighted both.

They reached the sixth stone and rested. But soon continued along their trail. They reached the seventh in the late afternoon. As Ash slashed his palm for the last time, he couldn’t help but sigh. “I think I had enough of blood for the time being.” They both watched the monolith. It flared brighter than the others had, power crinkling the air around them.

“It is thou, old snake.”

Crowley yelped, and Ash turned quickly to come between him and the new danger. But what he found was a middle-aged woman with graying brown hair, waves curling past her shoulders. She looked human, at least. He supposed she was the witch he needed to meet. He had been expecting a hag after letting his imagination run amok. And yet she had some kind of power in her.

“Pardon?” Ash relaxed his stance and pointedly did not look at Crowley. The man must be terribly embarrassed over his outburst. And he’s learned he could get touchy when being caught off guard. She regarded them with her dark, but kindly eyes. Ash thought she could read not just his current thoughts, but also the previous ones, his memories and his fears and hopes.

“The soup groweth cold.” She said matter-of-factly and turned towards a path they hadn’t noticed. Crowley and Ash stayed by the stone, but the wolf, snake and white mist followed the strange woman.

“Er…” Crowley looked back at him. Clearly anxious, wondering whether they, too, should follow. In answer the woman called over to them.

“Make haste, or thou shalt be late.” The voice carried from the somewhere through the thick trunks.

Ash looked over at the Hunter, with a tight smile. “Best not speculate.” They hurried to catch up as the shadows lengthened around them.

  


  


* * *

  


They walked deeper into the foreboding sea of greens and browns, patches of orange sunlight breaking through. Crowley had always wondered what the heart of the Old Woods looked like but self-preservation had won over his curiosity, only on that front, and kept to his usual haunts keeping a good distance away. When he was told to do the rites when he was a kid and hopped from one stone to the other, it ended with him running back the way he came as soon as he was done, opting to explore when he felt he wasn’t being watched. The Woods were more menacing back then to someone as small as he had been. As he walked among the trees in the present, smothered in silence, he felt his old fears returning.

The path led them to a little clearing, a modest cottage nestled at its center. The witch shooed them in and bustled over to the fireplace where a large pot was suspended over the flames. The animals curled at the edge of the hearth and were settling down for the night. The witch gave the contents in the pot one last stir and fished it out from the heat. Ash, the angel that he was surged forward to help.

He scowled to himself, remembering the indignity of getting ambushed by an old woman earlier that afternoon. But he did notice that the witch made no noise as she walked even with her skirts dragging over the grass. He looked at the blonde whose hair glimmered gold from the orange flames. It looked white that morning, but now spun like fine gold. He had so many layers he didn’t know where to start if he wanted to unravel his secrets. He was fascinated, absolutely _not_ touched, when the guy’s first instinct was to come between him and a possible threat. Was he a guard before he ran away? Or perhaps he really was an angel. _Huh, guardian angel._

He was yanked from his thoughts as a stack of bowls was thrust into his arms. The witch gave him a patronizing once over and indicated a nearby table. He almost snarled in answer but he was inside a witch’s cottage and it would be really, really stupid of him to pick a fight with _her_. He set the table as the woman started cutting up loaves with a methodical air.

The silence as they ate wasn’t oppressive but he was itching for any kind of noise louder than spoons scrapping over wooden bowls. Or better yet, talk. About why they were there, what they were supposed to do, or if they would live to see the light of day ever again. He calmed himself by watching Ash sipping his soup appreciatively but his eyes were moving about the room. He did the same, mapping out its furniture, the doors and the windows. To be fair, there wasn’t much and they could easily escape, but he wasn’t sure if there was magic involved in the locks.

“The doors shalt be unlocked. Thou art welcomed to leave should you wish,” she said without looking up, reading his thoughts. He shared a look with Ash and the other dared ask.

“What do you wish from us, if I may inquire, madam?” he started politely. “But please understand that we are grateful for your hospitality and of course, the delicious meal.”

“It is not what I need from thou. But what thou requires of me.” She gave them an unnerving smirk and Crowley bristled.

“Oh!” the blonde fumbled in his coat to bring out a card. “I was told I’d meet the author of this prophecy as I reached the last stone,” he passed the paper to her and she smiled at him.

“Dost thee doubt my words still?” she asked gently.

”I am no angel,” Ash frowned.

“Wha-“ Crowley started to ask when the witch snickered.

“Thou shalt learn with time,” she waved away his glower but then turned serious. “Time which is but numbered. What news has thee of the Queen?” she had a foreboding air and Ash fidgeted further.

“Nothing,” Crowley offered giving what he got. But her eyes bore into his until he continued. “Besides the rumours that she ran off with the Crown and that one of the advisers had almost stolen.” It was the talk of the town weeks ago, and since the Queen had yet to show up at court, people speculated that she really did hide herself away, or that she’s died. “The Kingdom’s currently in chaos and factions are fighting over the throne.” It was no great secret so he supposed the Witch couldn't use it against them.

Each pair of eyes turned to him, even the animals’ who he had forgotten, occupied as he was with the conversation or the lack of, before that. The snake had gone, but the owl was there, feathers ruffling. He didn't know birds could look that upset.

“The Queen is the Earth. Mother of the Kingdom. And she is weakening.” The old woman turned towards the owl hooting sadly. “Too much blood is being spilled, the evils of men wreaking havoc among the spirits. When the mortal Queen dies, there will be great imbalance.”

“So, the Queen hasn’t died yet?” He was never much for politics but it was the first time a royal had disappeared taking the Crown with her. The intrigue was high. Especially if finding her could stop the civil war.

“Aye, she's safe for now.” She looks over them, eyes glazed. “And will be,” she said a little more confidently.

“You seem to know a lot of what’s coming.” Crowley was incredulous.

“The future is no laughing matter, boy,” she chided him.

“Fine, then, but does this mean that you can tell us how to stop the war?”

“Nay.” She said nothing more and started collecting the dishes.

“Then what are your visions telling you?” He couldn’t hide his irritation anymore. He had way too many questions with no definitive answer. He was getting a headache.

She simply rolled her eyes at him “All things are foretold. All ye need is to understand where thou must stand at the end of the world.”

“Care to elaborate on that?” he quipped.

The woman just laughed. “What I may impart to ye is thus: **He is not who he says he is.** ” There was a heaviness in the cottage as she said the words, but the Hunter would not be cowed.

“That's not much of a prophecy,” he scoffed at her. “Just tell me who they are and be done with it.” Scratch the headache, it's turning into a full-blown migraine. His brain is throbbing from all the thinking. And he’s had a whole day without firing a single arrow. No sense of normalcy since the botched attempt on his life. He was definitely on edge.

She grinned. “I foresee thy misadventure on the matter. And it shalt be an amusing one.” _Great_ , he thought. She’s loving this.

Then in a sudden bout of seriousness, she said, “But it is not I who should reveal such.”

“As for you child,” she continued locking eyes with Ash and effectively stemming Crowley’s oncoming questions. “Let us walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took far longer than a week. I had to finish ["Not Enough to Tempt Me"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23142391/chapters/55382587) for the needed instant fluff and gave myself a little break (it had me typing far too many words than I expected).
> 
> Also, Agnes is a tough nut to write. She is an enigma here. She didn't even want introductions. Anathema would be the same but at least she'll be more talkative and less mysterious.


	13. It's Just a Name, Really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are my own. No beta, but the story was nagging at me to "get a wiggle on."

The Witch led Ash back into the trees following a little worn path only she could properly see. They each held a lamp, the light of which showed him very little of where they were going. He ought to be scared being led into the middle of the woods in the dark of the night. But somehow, he felt like he was supposed to be there.

He frowned. The Witch just confirmed that there was an ‘end of the world’ according to her visions. Ash had very little to do with magic before he set foot off of Gabriel’s keep. He knew of it and knew that it existed in their land but he had mainly lived off of logic and observations to survive in Gabriel’s court. But now he was embracing it. Unfortunately, as is everything else, there is a bad to every good. No matter the glee brought about by his new animal and human acquaintances when he had set foot into this side of the woods, he could not lie to himself that he resented it having also welcomed him to the end times.

The Witch halted by the side of a still pool of water as did Ash. Glancing at into its dark depths, he felt a pull. It would not be wise perhaps to dive into it to ease his nerves. He instead waited for the Witch to say her piece. She led him to the edge, leaned over and asked, “What do you see?”

Ash glanced back at the water’s surface, wondering if perhaps he would be given the chance to see her visions and glean whatever it was he needed to stop the approaching Armageddon. But the pool kept its secrets. He let out a disappointed sigh.

“Nothing else but the water. Dark and deep. I can’t even see the bottom though it looks small and ought to be shallow.” He hummed. He had always been captivated with how water can fool human eyes. And he knew it wasn’t magic. It was a natural trait, he could say confidently, especially now that he was slowly understanding the underlying energies of magic in the physical realm. His past experiences with deceptive lagoons taught him to take extra caution when nearing one.

“Look closer,” she breathed and threw her lamp into middle of the pool, causing ripples. But the water smoothed itself out swiftly and Ash’s eyes followed the yellow glow growing steadily brighter, the flame miraculously still alight. It illuminated the pool, sinking eerily to the bottom. The lamp flared and with the flash, he saw that there was something resting in the mud.

“It looks like a small chest,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Aye, so it is.” She did not look at the pool but was studying Ash instead. He stiffened. He knew what he had to do, and wondered how cold the water would be.

“I’ll take a dip then, shall I?” he sighed resolutely. The witch laughed.

“It is thy decision,” she said, still amused. “That chest came into being months before. The Old Woods guard it. Yet my vision says it is not I who shalle retrieve it.”

He wanted to complain about the apparent reason he was brought there was just so he could dive in and take the thing, but thought it best to save his breath, he was still unsure of the pool’s depths. He would have also complained about his having to get wet, but he was secretly anticipating the usual peace he’d feel when underwater. He readied himself at the edge, removing his boots, but the Witch grabbed his arm before he jumped. “Thy cloths shalle weigh ye down. If ye wish to take the task, ye must undress.”

He spluttered. He was just eager to finish what he was expected to do without really thinking. It would be the wisest decision as he couldn’t accurately guess how far the bottom was and how he needed the least weight when trying to resurface, but…

The Witch smirked. “I _know_ , child.” And it sounded like she did know. Not just his shyness, but much, much more than that. In fact, Ash felt like he was asked to confirm her suspicions or her visions of him. “I will let ye be,” she said placatingly and turned to slip behind the nearby trees.

Ash removed his clothes and boots, taking care to fold every article neatly on the ground. It was a habit of his, a ritual he’d done over the years to make sure he’d look respectable coming back to the village after his baths. He would even make sure his hair was properly curled and dry before reaching the first house. It was more for the sake of looking like he had just finished an errand. He’d rather not risk another round of people discussing his bizarre (at least compared to the other villagers’) behaviors.

He took a deep breath and waded in. The water welcomed him. It was not cold nor warm. A tolerable temperature on his bare skin. He did not stop when he felt his feet find the edge of a sheer drop downwards, instead he let himself be pulled deeper until he found himself sinking slowly to the bottom, keeping upright to lessen his movements and oxygen used. He didn’t know how heavy the chest would be.

He felt calm, like he always did and it helped him focus on the item below. He glided over to where the object was and found it was as long as his forearm and with a quick tug it was out the murky folds of mud. He had even gotten hold of the lamp with his other hand and quickly swam back to the surface.

He feared nothing from the now empty blackness beneath him. He dared not wonder what else was in the water. When back on dry land and sorted out his attire, he peered into the pool again. It was too simple a task, he was almost sure than a monster had lay in wake in the shadows of the pool to drag him to his death as soon as he touched the wooden chest, but none came.

“If the Woods did not welcome thee, then ye would have perished three days since,” the Witch stated, walking over to him after donning on his shirt and breeches. She lowered herself next to him on the grass and they both took their time watching the water ripple.

“I believe ye have questions aplenty but I may not have answers to all, nor would I readily offer them,” she said delicately. “The answers thou seekest shall be known to ye when thou art ready.” Ash didn’t let her words bother him. His philosophies paralleled hers after all.

“May I still ask questions?” he was still apprehensive as anyone else given the news of impending annihilation. The Witch gave him a sideways look and she nodded. Ash took a steadying breath. “Will I suffer again?”

That gave the Witch pause. “Yours is a daunting one,” she whispered. He almost didn’t hear it despite their silence. She gave him a reassuring smile, the lamplight softening her features into that of motherly dispositions. “Aye… and nay,” she replied, giving him a tight smile. “Thou hath suffered enouff from the hands of others… with the scars as proof.”

Ash hung his head. He supposed he was doomed after all. The scars, scales painted on his legs, were reminders of his inability to save himself, no matter the heroics he had shown days prior.

“It is a mark of your endurance. Not your weaknesses,” the woman said sharply, seeing his spiraling thoughts.

He shook his head. “I believe I am cursed.”

“Thou art not cursed,“ she admonished. “Ye have little faith in thyself. And thou must rid thy soul of such dark thoughts when war comes. It shalle take time, child. And… help,” she said the last word with a wink then got up to take the chest and marched back towards the cottage. Ash only had time to snatch his boots before the Witch’s light rounded a corner and hoped he won’t get lost in the dark.

* * *

Crowley found Ash by the pond to the side of the cottage. It didn’t look very witchy, he thought of overgrown gardens and green moldy waters housing frogs and newts and other slimy things that witches needed. Not this witch apparently. The spookiness that the mist and the dark painted had been reduced as the surface mirrored the stars above. The angel had his chin in his palms, legs crossed looking morosely at the still waters.

“Well, you look shaken,” he called.

He yelped. “Do not do that!”

“Sorry, sorry!” He laughed. “Didn't think you were far too gone.”

“Yes, well, that was still very impolite,” he huffed, straightening his posture as if he’d be called out for it.

“Sorry,” he said seriously then waited for the other man to speak. He watched his profile, wishing he could read his thoughts and know him better. He was thankful for the dark as he stared unabashedly over the blonde’s form, but he couldn’t parse his shape any better than him learning his mind. All that was different was that he was barefoot and his curls were clinging wetly on his head.

“Didn’t think the pond would be deep enough for a swim,” he said when Ash still held his tongue. “Here,” he handed him his cloak. The Witch shoved it into his hands the moment she came back to the cottage without the blonde. The woman was cradling a small wooden chest and he was too glad to leave her to whatever she wanted to do and get out the cottage. He had preened the owl’s feathers twice already and had even given the wolf a belly rub. He had nothing better to do and was already missing Ash’s talks.

“Oh, thank you,” the other man smiled up at him and patted the patch of grass to his left. “And it wasn’t this pond I dove into. It was a different pool somewhere there,” he waved his hands vaguely towards the back of cottage. “She had me swim after that chest she carried but wouldn’t tell me what was inside. Supposed she wanted to open it herself so I stayed here.”

“She seemed eager to throw me out, too.” Crowley saw him try to pull back his nervous energy.

“And there I was thinking she’d show me visions or tell me another great prophecy,” Ash huffed weakly. “All I got was a pep talk and a bath.” Crowley laughed.

“I don’t really go into the whole reading-into-the-future thing either,” but he could only wonder at what the meaning of the phrase the Witch gave him.

“I wasn’t either until the nuns gave me this,” and he passed him the card from his cloak.

“Told you you were an angel,” he grinned after reading, waving away the end of the world part, whatever that was. “And I guess I’d have to concede to your playing with fire. You don’t know how shocked I was when I saw a bleeding rope of fire curl around you.”

“I don’t really want to think that _all_ her prophecies are real,” and the trepidation in his eyes came back. His hands fumbled to twist the hem of his coat then reached over to put on his boots for something better to do. But Crowley darted forward to take one. He saw a hilt pushing out from a series of leather straps. He pulled it out and gasped seeing the dagger Ash had used to stave off Hastur’s attacks.

“So, this is where you hid it,” he whistled, then seemed to come back to himself. “Er… sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” He pushed the blade back in and handed the boot back to its owner.

“It’s fine, you can look,” the blonde said brandishing the dagger out for him to take.

“Uh, thanks, yeah, uhm…” Crowley brought the blade nearer to his eyes to hide the rising blush of embarrassment fighting its way to his cheeks. He marveled at its sharpness. At first glance it was thin and flimsy but he found it was nice and firm with a good length. It was nearer a short sword really, had the blade been thicker. It had an almost inconspicuous curve.

“Nice dagger,” he said after a while. “Never been good with swords, but I saw this in action and I can’t help but be awed at its durability. And it looks like a fang which is amazing, by the way.”

“That’s high praise to a blacksmith. Although I never intended to make it look like a fang. Must have missed that…” he prattled on taking the dagger back and examining the curve completely oblivious of Crowley’s mouth dropping open as he spoke.

“You made that?”

“Hmm?” he said eyes turning back to the red-head. “Well, yes. I am a blacksmith. Used to be anyway. I can’t be much now that I have no smithy to work in.”

“Huh,” was all Crowley could say. It was another puzzle piece and a voice in his head had suddenly began whispering other questions he wanted to ask, he needed to take it slow so that Ash won’t run off. He didn’t want to seem insensitive but his curiosity was on high alert. He cleared his throat to gently say, “Actually I thought you were a scribe like you did at that nunnery you were chattering on about. Can’t exactly see why someone is hunting down a blacksmith…” Crowley let his voice drop to a whisper and stared across the pond, keeping himself from looking at Ash. He wanted to give him the chance to stop the conversation should he choose.

The silence stretched on. He heard his companion take a deep breath and he held his. His imagination was going ninety miles an hour in his head, thinking of all the possible scenarios the blonde would to tell him. But all that came to a screeching halt when the man said:

“Would you believe my name isn’t actually Ash?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Agnes wasn't being a perv.
> 
> Am I being vague? Maybe... probably... only partly on purpose though... it's lack of coffee... and sleep. Had too many fanfics to read (no regrets, though :D ).


	14. The Cracks are Showing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ash shares a part of his past and parts of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get a little comfort for all the hurt. I just wanted to tell Crowley a little background of his angel. But things got a little heavy...
> 
> Also, we have a name change after this! I don't trust myself to rake out continuity errors, so leave a comment if you find one!

The night had been calm as Ash stumbled back out to the small clearing of the Witch’s cottage and sat himself by a small pond to its side. It gave him the time to wonder where he fitted in the grand scheme of things. And when Crowley came out, the evening had blanketed their conversation like they were the only two in the world and his worries slowly chipped away.

It was pride that killed it. He felt smug telling Crowley he made the dagger himself and he regretted it as soon as he the man reminded him that he was supposed to have been working as a scribe in the nunnery. He gulped. How far back could he reveal? Was it safe to reveal his history at all? But Crowley had shared his secrets, did he not? Not to mention the Witch hinting ever so forcefully that he was keeping secrets from his companion. She also said he’d need help. Was Crowley the help? Would his confession make the red-head take back his words of joining him to the South, or would it be the catalyst to his reformation, or whatever nonsense the Witch was spouting on about?

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes hoping that he was making the right decision.

“Would you believe my name isn’t actually Ash?”

There was only silence. He still had his eyes shut. He’s testing the waters. His name wasn’t the heaviest of his secrets but he didn’t know where else to start.

“Eh… yeah, I’d believe that,” Crowley drawled. It still made him flinch, but he was able to crack one eye open to peer at the Hunter. His snake eyes, now a muted gold in the dim lamp light, were wandering over the pond but not on him, mouth quirked upwards as if he had no control over it. “Always thought the name wasn’t right. So, what is it then?” he turned to him then, clearly eager to know more.

He took another breath. “My name is rather complicated,” he knew he was stretching the time and Crowley knew it as well. The red-head leaned in closer to him, smirking.

“Go on…”

“Erm, yes. It’s, uhm, A-Aziraphale,” he stuttered.

“Nice to meet you then, Aziraphale.” And oh, wasn’t that a thing. He spoke his name in low, careful tones, letting the letters roll gently off his tongue. He felt warm all over. He guessed maybe it was because he’s never been called that name for ever so long. He could only smile back at him shyly. The archer repeated the name over and over grin getting wider as the blonde’s blush grew redder. “Suits you,” the grin morphing into a genuine smile.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathed out. He wasn’t sure if it was for the compliment or for ending the chants. He wasn’t used to that much attention.

“Will you also tell me who wants your head on a silver platter?” Crowley said casually, but held up his palms. “But you don’t have to tell me, just… want to know you better, is all. Thank you for telling me your name by the way.” He rubbed the back of his neck and Aziraphale softened. He guessed he could share a little bit more about himself.

“That’d be Gabriel, he lorded over the little village I ran off from,” he fiddled with the grass around him. “He had been since we moved in ten years ago. Me and my parents, I mean. We were free citizens but of course, poor. We thought we got lucky to find a village where we could earn a living. It was also a miracle there was a vacant cottage we could use, not for free, mind. Rent had built up steadily since our first year, and although having a baker for a mother, and a blacksmith for a father, our income was still on the short side. But we had enough to live by.” He couldn’t help but wish for the simple life again. Preferably back with his father and mother and the weight of the world yet to hang on his shoulders.

“I would help with baking and my mother’s deliveries in the morning, then run back to the forge to help my father with the metalworks. We lived peacefully enough until the fire. I suppose I attract flames even before we met. Asked the Witch whether I was cursed. She said no, but I’m pretty sure I am. Ha!” he ran his hand over his still wet locks.

“I’m sure it was just an ordinary cock-up,” Crowley supplied. He bumped his shoulder to his, a simple but comforting gesture.

“Whatever it was, it either came from the ovens or the forge, or perhaps something alien altogether. The point was, Gabriel had taken offense and had my parents paying for each stone of the cottage _he_ sheltered us in.” He scowled at his knees.

“Sounds like a wanker,” Crowley offered getting a weak chuckle from him.

He sobered up quickly, though. “Neighbors took pity and helped us rebuild the cottage as best they could but not a year later, a sudden illness took my mother, after two months, she was followed by my father. Perhaps that’s when I started calling myself Ash. My home was burned down and everything I loved was brought down with it. So, I decided I’d do the same to my name,” he smiled sadly.” He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and he focused on that instead of the water pooling at the corner of his eyes.

“After the burial Gabriel had turned our home upside down. Finding nothing, he rounded on me demanding payment. We had nothing. _I_ had nothing. Suddenly there was a barbed whip in his hand and a smarting pain on my back.” Crowley hissed in sympathy.

“It was one of my father’s works – designed and commissioned by Gabriel of course,” he laughed hollowly, it grated his throat. “I whimpered out a plea to keep the forge going to raise enough money through metal work. I assured him I could do that much at least.” He had bleeding gashes that day and a demand for daggers to be sold to the markets the morning after. Looking back, he didn’t know how he managed.

“He never did pay me enough for his commissions. Likely my father had the same predicament. He’d take the items and go off to the markets himself. Whatever price they got, I was never told. He sometimes threw a few coins to me telling he shaved off a few for the debts. Even when his – my – clientele became wealthier. He wanted to be an official noble. But passed the age of becoming a knight, I guessed he thought he could buy the title.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t chain you to the smithy,” Crowley grimaced.

“No, but he did make sure to lock the keep gates so that I didn’t get out,” he sighed. Somehow, talking about his past to someone else was making it easier to relive them in his head. “But he had other ways to ‘chain’ me,” he shivered, remembering Sandalphon.

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale found the red-head fully turned towards him, legs crossed, one arm propped on his knee, and chin supported by his knuckles. He wondered when he moved. He wondered if he could show him. Would his nerves over them lessen like his fear over Gabriel the more he talked? He thought it was worth a try.

He brought the lamp closer and set it between them, removing the shades he used to dim it. He didn’t get to put his boots back on so all he had to do was pull his trouser legs up. He shifted to face Crowley and before he had a chance to lose his nerve, he bared his scars.

The warm yellow light could not have helped mellow the stretched skin, paler than the rest. It brought the pattern weaving around his limbs into greater relief. But before his usual nausea could set in, he heard Crowley gasp. His eyes were glued to his legs with his face contorted in silent agony and before he knew what he was doing, his arms shot up to cradle the other man’s face in his hands.

* * *

It was a whole new level of cruelty. It was downright torture. It was sickening. He couldn’t bear to imagine the pain Aziraphale must have felt. It didn’t even look like it had been done just the once. There were overlapping edges, and the links looked detailed – the chains would have been very tight around his legs to leave those kinds of impressions.

He felt dizzy. It must have been excruciating. He wasn’t a stranger to pain. He’s had his share of cuts and bruises. He dealt killing blows. But never to that extent of torment. Even Hastur and Ligur would end their bit when the screams reached their highest pitch. He remembered accidentally picking up a hot poker while waiting impatiently for the blacksmith to finish his arrows. He knows Aziraphale’s wounds would have felt a hundred times worse and probably without the comfort of reaching for a nearby pail of water to sooth the burns soon after. He was surprised he could still walk.

He felt his body tremble as he realized that he, at least, had the option of hiding out in the woods if he felt suffocated. Yes, he lived in constant fear for his life, but he was beginning to understand that Aziraphale was kept alive without the chance of actually living. He didn’t know which was option was worse.

He felt a thumb swipe across his cheeks, and a voice whispering in calming tones asking him to breath. He made himself focus on the sound. His visions gradually merged back with reality and he found that instead of burning metal, he was staring into pale blue pools of worry.

He realized they were eyes and that he couldn’t move his head. He could feel the calluses on Aziraphale’s hands but they felt soft on either side of his head. “Are you alright?” he heard him ask.

He couldn’t make his voice come out but he nodded. Why was _he_ being comforted? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around? He felt Aziraphale’s arms pull away and he suddenly felt like he lost the feeling of his own limbs. He heard a rustle of fabric and watched as the man hastily stuffed his legs back into his boots. That conversation over those and the dagger seemed like years away. He had just noticed that they reached just below the knee covering what he firmly thought of as Aziraphale’s battle wounds.

The man stood, offering a hand down for him to take and a small smile to bring his consciousness back from whatever abyss it fell into. He was suddenly reminded of the first time they met. This time, though, he welcomed the touch. And was thinking it wasn’t enough. Not intimate touch, no. The comforting kind to brush away the agonies of the past. And not for him, but for the angel. Would he be allowed that privilege? Would he welcome it? And why the hell was he looking at him as if he was the one scorched and wounded?

“Sorry,” the blonde started. “I didn’t think you’d react that way,” he bowed his head, but watched his face from beneath his lashes.

He forced his voice to do its job and whispered, “Shouldn’t I be the one apologizing?” voice too breathy but at least it didn’t sound like he would break out sobbing.

“For what, my dear?”

“For well…” he gestured towards his boots.

“But you weren’t responsible for those,” he felt a hand on his elbow. “Really, Crowley. It’s fine.” The hand was rubbing his upper arms now. “I’ve already escaped, remember? It’s all behind me.” The hand gave him a gentle but grounding squeeze and he labored to get his breathing back to normal.

He gazed into Aziraphale’s face once more, searching, for what he couldn’t name yet. But the smile he gave him was enough to restart his emotions. All the hurt disappeared to be replaced by anger. He glowered at the grass. Anger was familiar. Anger he could deal with. And somewhere deeper he felt the wisps of protectiveness taking hold.

“I’m saving one special arrow for Gabriel, if you don’t mind,” he spat out through gritted teeth. Maybe he could try poisoning the tip, something that brought out nightmares before the eventual death.

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t think that’s necessary, dear boy,” he huffed.

“You won’t need to be there when I shoot, just point the bugger’s face out for me to target and he won’t even know what hit him,” he argued. “Although, I think I’d like to make sure he knows why he needed to suffer.”

The blonde sighed. “Actually, I’d rather not see his face for the rest of my mortal existence, besides…” his voice dropped. “I’d rather you save that arrow for his steward, Sandalphon. He was the one who held the ends of the chains.”

“I can load my quiver, angel, and let the whole lot loose on them.” He could. He would. He’d gladly deal with them. He’d retire fully _after_ those two met their end.

“Please,” he heard Aziraphale beg. He wasn’t aware he was talking. He was already making a mental list of ingredients he’d need for the poison. “Please,” his friend said once more. “Forget them. I will not even look in their direction unless I have the whole of the Southern Ridges separating us.”

Cowley bit his tongue to stop him from answering that he’d still probably get a good shot from a mountain ledge. He could tell the blonde was getting anxious gain. “Alright, I’ll drop it… for now,” he couldn’t help but add.

They heard the door creak and Shadow’s head poked out to look at them, followed by the Witch. They were both reminded of where they were. Shadow trotted over to Aziraphale for a head pat and nuzzled his thigh before heading out to hunt. The Witch waved to usher them back in.

She handed them a pile of blankets each to arrange however they liked by the fireplace and bustled away. Crowley lay awake despite finally having a roof to sleep under again, and the warmth of his makeshift bed. In less than forty-eight hours his whole world had turned upside-down and inside-out. But no matter all the confusion, he at least knew it had a focal point. And that person was sleeping at the other side of the room, fluff of white curls spilling over white sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could also leave comments if you fancy the story so far. :D
> 
> The plot is moving a little slowly but they won't shut up. And a little comfort goes a long way. There's more coming, of course. Our angel has a lot more secrets to wind Crowley up. *grins*


	15. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale get some much needed cheeriness before they start running for their lives again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley POV!
> 
> I am fully responsible for grammar or spelling mistakes and I apologize profusely for Agnes' archaic language. I don't really know what was running through my head or if they were accurate, ahaha. Forgive me? :D

They were woken up in the early hours of the morning with gentle shoves. It took Crowley a full minute to remember where he was. He groaned. A quick peek from a crack in the window told him there was too early, probably at least an hour more before sunrise. He liked his sleep and he was getting very little. It was a horrible start for his day and he sensed it was going to get worse.

He forced his body to get up, no matter how much he wished to burrow into the warmth some more. He intoned a stream of curses under his breath as he tidied his blankets. A rustling sound told him that Ash-Aziraphale was doing the same.

He dreaded facing the blonde that morning. He felt like an idiot. He broke down in front of his new friend, and it wasn’t even _his_ problems. The memories of the night before constituted a great chunk of emotional baggage he was going to bury well out of reach of his waking hours. He’d do the same to Aziraphale if he could. He couldn’t possibly escape the blonde and by the end, he resolved they would talk more about it when Aziraphale decided to bring the topic up.

He wrestled the fabrics into one corner and found the blonde coming over to pile his blankets on top. They shared a small smile before searching for the woman that woke them up in such ungodly hours. There was a faint light from the other room and they followed it to find the Witch peering into the contents of a copper bowl. There were herbs scattered at the bottom. _I hope that’s not breakfast_ , Crowley frowned.

“Right!” the witch bellowed startling them both. “I require water from a spring of healing,” she held her hands out to Aziraphale who was standing to her right.

“I’m afraid I don –“ he was interrupted by a cold nose pressing against his hand. The wolf handed him a wineskin. Aziraphale’s eyes searched the other room to find his pack ransacked and groaned at the mess. But before he could voice his protests, the Witch snatched the wineskin from him and began to pour it into a bowl.

It gave off a faint glow and the herbs at the bottom of the bowl melted into nothing. Aziraphale gasped. “Was that supposed to happen?” he asked, shooting glances at the wolf who went to lead the white owl into the room with them.

“Yep,” was the only thing she said before turning to draw shapes and sigils on the floor, arranging candles as she went.

Crowley watched the concern take over the blonde’s face as the beast neared. “Why? What’s wrong?” he couldn’t help but ask. _That_ look did not belong on his face.

Aziraphale had given his pet the once over and satisfied that nothing seemed to be the problem, he said “I used the water to clean Shadow’s wounds before, although I used water straight from the spring in the In-Between. He healed in less than a day. I merely filled the wineskin just in case I had to clean out his injuries again. Forgot that I had it,” he shrugged sheepishly. “I was afraid that some part of Shadow might have melted, too. I guess it was just the herbs.” Crowley’s was screeching mentally. An injured wolf would lash out. It’s a wonder he was still alive. The man was a magnet for danger! _Like me_ , he thought and was tempted drown himself in guilt. They weren’t safe yet.

Before he could wallow further in his dark thoughts the witch began chanting while moving around the symbols she had mapped. Mesmerized, Crowley stepped closer, and incidentally, the blonde did the same. The owl marched into the center, fluffing its feathers importantly. Crowley couldn’t help scoff at it fondly. It had taken him weeks to get it to admit it needed help from him. It was too proud for its own good, and though he would never admit it, he had considered the bird allowing him to care for it as his most fulfilling achievement so far – escaping his murder was a team effort and did not count in his books.

Smoke followed the owl. It could only have been the snake. It looked apprehensive and had swirled around the circumference of the outermost lines, inspecting each symbol before Aziraphale clucked at it. Crowley felt it giving him an eye-roll but took its place either way. It seemed more amenable as the owl scooted to give it space. It had started to become more solid as the minutes ticked, which meant that the sun was starting its ascent.

“We have but a few minutes more.” The witch patted her hands free of chalk dust. “Ready thy weapons,” she instructed them.

“What?” the Hunter had been tolerant of the proceedings so far and his brain had yet to screech at what he was witnessing. But he was damned if he’s going to let the Witch butcher the animals, even the snake who he was somehow forming a kinship with. Aziraphale had also stiffened beside him.

“They shalle not be harmed,” the Witch stated solemnly. It sounded like an oath and eased his apprehension somewhat. “Well, get along,” she shooed them, sounding like her matronly self again. Her mood swings were giving Crowley whiplash and decided to do as he was told before she decides to turn nasty again.

He had his dagger, still strapped to his belt, but it didn’t feel right to use. That left his arrows. He didn’t really know what it was going to be used for, but he picked the finest one among all the others. The ebony feathers displaying a healthy sheen through its fibers. Aziraphale had his dagger held loosely in his hand. He darted a quick glance at it and the man’s face quickly before he got caught. That dagger triggered the previous night’s discussion and he was struggling to not grab it and fling the thing away.

The Witch held the copper bowl above the glowing forms of both owl and snake. She waited for the moment where both were in the middle of their transformation and tipped the contents. The liquid did not run directly onto the animals below, bur rather slid around them to form a casing, the base following the circular lines on the floor. It sealed the animals within but it also looked like it had stilled their transformation.

The witch then directed Aziraphale to stand on the Eastern side of the circle and Crowley to the West. “When I tell thee, ye must plunge thy weapons into the sigils afore ye.” And there, indeed, were symbols encircled with a line running towards the middle, meeting beneath the trapped creatures.

Both men kneeled and poised their weapons over the marks. When the Witch gave her signal, they simultaneously brought the tips of their weapons down to the wooden floor. A gentle whoosh escaped the circle but both Crowley and Aziraphale had been thrown back. Inside the domed casing they saw the snake rear its head to reveal just one snake fang protruding from its mouth, but Aziraphale’s dagger lit up the same moment the snake’s mouth grew another.

The owl on the other hand had begun flapping its wings and stretched them, as much as their space allowed. The arrow’s feathers shone with multi-colored hues and the glow flowed down to the tip and towards the center. The owl’s feathers gleamed and the missing ones regrew. Both looked far more solid than when the spells started. When the lights dimmed, the encasement hummed and thinned.

“And now we wait,” came the Witch’s voice over the thrumming in the room. She picked up both arrow and dagger and placed them on her work table. She hummed and motioned for them to come closer. She gingerly handed Aziraphale the dagger, its blade shined as if coated by oil. “Poisoned,” she announced, voice bland but eyes hard. “And it shalle remain so for its foreseeable future. Wield it only when necessary.”

The blonde looked confused and reluctant to touch the enchanted blade. “It shalt not injure either of ye,” nodding towards Crowley as well. “Nor those that pose no threat to thy life. But may only be borne to strike by ye.” She held the angel’s gaze and he waited only for a beat before reclaiming the blade and sliding it back into his boots.

She then took the Hunter’s arrow and snapped off the feathered end. She worked swiftly but meticulously to blunt the sharp edges and bore a hole at the tip. There she threaded a black leather thong to hold it. She assessed the necklace she made then handed it to Crowley.

The feather had completely burned to white, barbs glinting like quicksilver and edges dipped in light gold. “Thy arrows shalle fly straight and true. So long as thy hearts desires it most.”

Crowley frowned, “What does that mean? My aim’s almost perfect.” He sounded prideful but he had nothing else to his name, and he found true confidence in archery alone. It sounded like a charm he could do without. Besides, he’d rather make mistakes with his own practiced skill than relying on magicked bits and bobs.

The Witch boxed his ears and he cried out more out of shock than pain. “’Tis a gift! It tells of aiding ye in times of dire need, ye knobbestick! Now get thee away to the orchards ‘til thy giffle-gaffle’s nigh buggered off!” She shoved both men out the cottage and threw baskets out to them before slamming the door shut.

“Uhm…” Crowley couldn’t begin to understand what just happened. He felt his ears burn and was shuffling his feet hoping the ground would swallow him whole. He couldn’t bear lift his head to look at Aziraphale’s face. He felt like a child humiliated in front of his friend, which was exactly what he was at the moment. But it was the guilty kind of humiliated, because he knew what he did wrong.

He heard a snort beside him which soon turned into bouts of giggling. Pretty soon it went into full-throated guffaws breaking the early morning stillness. He chanced a quick glance and saw the blonde doubled over in laughter. But it felt familiar, not meant to be offensive and pretty soon he was laughing along with him.

Their mirth subsided after a few minutes but they still shook every so often from the memory. They didn’t remember how they found the fruit trees but they did and started filling their baskets. Crowley was bent on loading his to the very brim to pacify the Witch.

They were initially preoccupied with their task, but they idled more as it grew warmer and they felt the sweat trickle down their backs. Aziraphale fell through a couple of berry bushes and didn’t resurface. The red-head found him sitting comfortably on the ground popping blueberries into his mouth. He wiped the juices from his mouth as primly as he could on the back of his hand and offered him a handful of the fruit. He readily joined him and they recalled the morning’s events.

“I told you the dagger looked like a fang,” Crowley stated, grabbing more of the little purple balls for them to share.

“Yes, they rather did,” Aziraphale hummed. “I did not realize the snake had only one. Although I guess we fit that way.”

“What d’you mean?”

“The dagger was just one of a matching pair.”

“So, where’s the other one?” The other boot must have had the same leather straps but he didn’t see a second hilt the night before. He quirked his eyebrows at him, “Lost it have you?”

Aziraphale blushed and fussed with the end of his shirt sleeves. “I gave it away,” he mumbled.

Crowley blinked up at him. “You what?”

“I GAVE IT AWAY!”

Crowley blinked then burst out laughing. The things that came out from the blonde’s lips surprised him in many different ways and he silently asked for more. He got his wish.

“Yes, well, I already had one, and the woman was assaulted, really so she probably did not want that to happen again and she might make use of that dagger, although I gave it for their child to keep, but I guess the father would know how to use it better, but he refused when I offered it to him at first. But it really was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? And to be honest, the blade was bloodstained already and I would not have that reminder to pick on my conscience, thank you very much, even if it was my fault...”

It took Crowley a few minutes to calm the blabbering blonde and coax him to tell the story in more detail because who wouldn’t want to know with that premise for a tale? He enjoyed the anecdote, sparing no amount of pity for the soldiers but rejoicing in the survival of all the other characters (especially the angel’s). He was beginning to believe that he would never tire of Aziraphale and his stories for the rest of his lifetime and maybe even beyond that.

They bantered all morning as the sun rose higher and their baskets filled. He had never laughed that much in a week, he was sure. He knew he was grinning dopily at his companion as he recounted the makings of the little trinkets he sold off. This gave Crowley ample opportunity to admire the man’s profile. His head supplied a variety of descriptions he’d never say out loud and was ready to take to his grave. _He’s graceful, he’s beautiful, he’s perfect, he’s lov –_. Crowley’s eyes widened and his heartbeat pounded in his chest. He tried swallowing a lump in his throat but knew he was done eating and had nothing in his mouth.

He kept himself from groaning audibly and could only stare helplessly at Aziraphale. The blonde didn’t notice his change of mood. His realization knocked his breath away and he didn’t know if he wanted to scream out the truth of decry the unfairness of it all. And when the his companion turned his way, beaming smile plastered to his face, he whimpered internally and felt warmth bloom in his chest.

He was well and truly FUCKED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even I can't follow Agnes' mood swings but she knows what she's doing so I let her do what she wants.
> 
> *nudges a basketfull of blueberries your way to make you forget the messes I made in this chapter* :)
> 
> Thank you for the comments and the kudos!


	16. Once More to Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> 1\. A mess of POVs.  
> 2\. Fight scene!  
> 3\. People get hurt. Not fatal.  
> 4\. Is there blood? There must be, otherwise we can't appreciate the fights.

Soft morning sunlight bathed them as they lounged in beneath the fruit trees and hedged between berry bushes. Aziraphale worried that the heaviness from the night before would mar their budding closeness but his heart swelled every time Crowley laughed. Their antics earlier that morning helped greatly to dispel his anxiousness that he would lose his new found friend.

It was getting warmer, perfect summer days were a rarity. He loathed to move away from his spot but knew they should start going back before the Witch swoop in on them again. He couldn’t help but grin remembering Crowley’s cowed expression. He finally wore the feather charm after a quick reminder that the woman would notice if he didn’t. The string caught at his ears and his nose as he eagerly tried to put it on. He had looked absolutely adorable. Speaking of the man, he noticed that he had been uncommonly quiet the last few minutes. He looked over at the red-head and faltered.

“Are you alright?” The man’s face was flushed pink. He had on a fairly exasperated expression and Aziraphale might have thought he was boring him with his endless blabber but for the corners of his lips involuntarily quirking upwards. He was only given unintelligible words as reply and thought perhaps he was tired and suggested going back.

The lifted their baskets and were too focused on keeping the fruits from falling when they entered the cottage. Only the Witch was there to greet them. Dread pooled in his gut. Time had seemed to stop the day they came to meet the old woman. _That was only yesterday_ , his mind supplied. He was taken aback by how much had happened, how much had been said, in less than twenty-four hours. In seeing the almost empty cottage, he felt the bubble of peace and cheerfulness being punctured.

“Thou hast returned,” the Witch greeted. She looked far too somber, adding to his worry.

“Where’re Shadow and the others?” he had to know. He could sense that they weren’t there. The atmosphere was a far cry from what they left behind earlier that day.

“I sent thy wolf before ye to the southern borders carrying instructions for thy welcome.”

“Oh, t-that’s… thank you,” he said timidly. The report answered another query he’d been harboring for a while, mainly what awaits them after they moved on past the mountains. It appeared the Witch had plans already set up. He’d have loathed the idea of being controlled but it that instance, he was grateful that he won’t be running around the southern keeps like a chicken without its head.

“The owl and the snake are seeking balance with Earth, realigning their scattered energies,” she continued, looking pensive. “But they are well and will return to assist me,” and here she looked over them. “And thou must stride towards thy own path. They send their blessings to ye, and tell that ye shalle reunite with them when thou hath done thy part.”

Crowley opened his mouth to ask but was cut off with a look from the Witch. “I shalle answer no questions more. Ye must reach the mountains afore the day ends, or hath thou forgotten thy plight?”

The red-head set his mouth in a grim line. But muttered to the blonde, “I’d be only too glad we never see her again.”

The woman ushered them to collect their things, waiting for them by the entrance, and had them pick among their hauls of that morning for their journey.

“Tread straight from here to yonder direction,” she pointed to the southwest. “And seek the rift in the rocks,” she told them as she led them back to the door.

“But that’s just a narrow cave,” Crowley blurted out with a frown. “I’ve been there and it’s a dead end.”

The witch hummed, pulling out a candle from her skirts. “This shalle light what hast been hidden from thee.” The Hunter took it gingerly and stuffed it into his coat. “Seek out my kin, Anathema, when thou hast reached the village.”

They said their farewells but dawdled at the edge of the clearing. It felt strange traveling by themselves, but somehow knew the Witch told only the truth that they shall see their animal companions soon. And like the encasement of liquid magic they witnessed thinning just that morning, he could feel the humming of the inevitable end of what little tranquility they managed to steal from there.

* * *

Crowley had already felt skittish as they left the Witch’s cottage behind. They traveled in relative silence as the hours passed, spurred on by the thought that they were almost free. The night had crept up on them far too quickly to be comfortable.

He was still confident, though. He knew his way through the forest, even in the dark. He could lead them easily to the narrow rift. The crack in the rockface was one of his hideouts. He’d been searching for escape routes for the last three years and he’s even contemplated scaling the steep sides, but knew it was futile. The mountains’ impenetrability was the main reason the South lasted as it had. He and Aziraphale only had to pass the crown of rocks looming above them. He had grinned ready to tell the blonde that they were almost at the border… but he jinxed it.

They were ambushed just as they reached the foot of the craggy incline.

They heard the footsteps first. Wheeling around to search where the noise had come from, Crowley caught a whiff of day-old offal. “Hastur,” he hissed. And as if summoned, the man slinked out from the shadows.

He was notching an arrow to attack before the man had the chance to close the distance between them when Aziraphale grabbed hold of his shirt and tugged him bodily behind a tree, narrowly escaping a short knife which twanged as it embedded itself on the trunk where his head had been. He cursed. Hastur he could take on, but Beel – because that knife was their trademarked weapon – would be difficult.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. A few more of the blades flew alarmingly close to them. He was too busy trying to catch a glimpse of his old boss that he didn’t notice the blonde dragging him towards their intended direction maneuvering both of them from one tree to another. When another knife sang close to his ears, he grabbed the blonde’s shoulders. “Just get up to the top of the slope, there are plenty of rocks to hide behind. I’ll distract them,” he said quickly. He jumped up a low-lying branch and disappeared in the tree’s canopies, sparing one last “Go!” to the man below.

The Hunter found the closeness of the trees a relief; the branches offered him more space to move about. He had seen a flash of red from his perch and let an arrow loose. He shimmied further up the tree and loosed a few more arrows where he spied the tell-tale clump of matted, dark hair.

“I don’t want to waste any more knives on you Crowley. We just came to talk.” The reedy voice came from somewhere below.

“Fat chance!” he called, shooting another arrow into the surrounding shadows beneath him.

* * *

Aziraphale clucked as he followed Crowley’s retreating outline. He knew he was better up in the trees but the man can’t fight two people at a time, based on previous experience. He needed to help. He wanted to take his dagger out but the poison that coated it made him uneasy. He’s had one kill, and he’d rather not add one more.

He was sidetracked from this dilemma as a figure stepped out from behind a tree. A tiny sliver of a moon had come out and as if the Woods was eager to watch the scene, its weak light was magnified enough to get a glimpse of a familiar smudge of white hair.

“I know you’re hiding there somewhere,” came a growl. “Come on, you big lump. You’re not fooling me anymore. If you want to save that snake, Crowley, again, you’re going to have to come out and fight.”

Aziraphale plastered himself to another tree trunk. He had never let taunts distract him from what he needed to do. And right then, his priority was staying alive.

“You never introduced yourself properly, you know?” Hastur continued. “Doesn’t matter. I’m Hastur by the way. Someone else is _dying_ to meet you, but he had to stay in bed.” He pulled out two cutlasses and swings them around him. If Aziraphale wasn’t busy planning his survival, he’d have rolled his eyes. Hastur might have wanted to look intimidating, but he could see how awkward he was controlling the sword gripped in his less dominant hand. “Just keep quiet, do as you’re told, and you might just live.”

“No thank you.” Aziraphale called out from his hiding spot, then silently moved on to another. He searched the ground as he went and found a sturdy-looking branch lying feet away from him. He crawled to it carefully. He could hear the twang of Crowley’s bowstring from above. He surmised that the knife thrower was more of a threat than the other Hastur, or that he trusted Aziraphale to fight his own battle. Hopefully the archer didn’t think he’d just run off to leave him.

The white-haired brute had shuffled closer to where he had spoken and was still monologuing. “This,” Aziraphale glanced at a cutlass the man held up, “is Ligur’s. The bloke you and Crowley _thought_ you killed.” The blonde frowned. He wasn’t sure if he was glad that a life had been saved or that maybe it was better to have made sure the other man died. He heard annoyed cussing in the branches. “He wanted me to take revenge.”

 _I’d ponder that later_ , Aziraphale thought as he positioned himself behind Hastur, who was cackling all the while thinking he was stalking him. Taking a moment to listen and map out Crowley and the knife-thrower’s general direction, and thankful that they seemed to have moved a distance further away from where he and Hastur was, he leaped from his spot, swinging his branch to disarm the assassin's weaker hand. He then brought the branch back up to collide with Hastur’s face before he could lash out.

Aziraphale took the fallen weapon and took his stance.

* * *

Crowley’s quiver was exhaustible, he knew as much. But he couldn’t let his guard down. He’s just heard Hastur taunting his friend but he couldn’t risk glancing their way, especially as he was tracking Beel. She was small and quick, but he was just as persistent. He had to make sure she doesn’t direct her throws at Aziraphale. He’d rather hit her of course, but she wasn’t second-in-command of the Guild for nothing.

He intercepted another knife throw, almost hitting Beel’s hand. _Fuck, he almost had her_ , he blamed himself. An injured hand would have reduced her offense level.

“Cut that out you piece of shit!” he heard from her general direction. She had a way with her voice that made it buzz and permeate a space making it hard to pinpoint her exact location. It was a great skill, but was a nuisance when she was the target.

“If you promise to let us leave,” he didn't feel hopeful. Crowley knew a request like that would not be honoured.

“Y’know, Ligur didn’t die – just barely able to move – so, technically you’re off the hook. You can come back to the Guild.”

The red-head could only scoff at the poor excuse of an invitation to ceasefire.

“Although,” Beel continued, and the drop in her tone chilled Crowley. “There’s this excitably feather-brained, purple-eyed lord who was willing to drop bags of gold to capture his little bird.”

Crowley kept silent. He had an inkling who the client would be and who the target was. It answered the question of why the second-in-command was out in the field and was humoring Hastur's stint for repercussions.

“Heard Hastur there raving at me and I thought his swordsman fit the wanker’s description. Wants the target alive though,” she said offhandedly. Flicking another blade towards Hastur’s loud shouts. He deflected the knife with his own shot.

“The client was a little picky,” Beel continued unfazed, Crowley could almost see her lounging against the tree she hid behind. “Great big twat. Had to give him a demonstration of my skill before he agreed I was the best possible choice for the assignment.” He _heard_ her many-toothed grin. She only wore it when she had someone at knife-point during a hand-to-hand combat. She didn’t like being underestimated.

What little thrill the archer felt over Gabriel’s humiliation evaporated when Beel called out to him. “We can share.” And she took off running.

* * *

“Oi, that’s not yours!” Hastur cried.

“Nor is it yours,” Aziraphale drifted towards him slowly, keeping his footing steady but loose just in case he needed to bolt to safety, he was still uncertain where the other assassin was. He hoped Crowley had them cornered.

He lunged shedding his blade against the other’s, metal screeching in the still night. He slowed his heartbeat as much as he could, trying to remain alert of his surroundings.

He could hear shouting behind Hastur. It was Crowley’s voice. There were rapid footfalls charging towards them but he kept his eyes on his opponent, who turned at the sound despite himself. Aziraphale took full advantage and disarmed Hastur for the second time, driving him back.

With both weapons at hand, he could see the man gulp. He was a fighter yes, but unskilled, relying on brute force alone. Aziraphale on the other hand had been taught how to really fight. He couldn’t make proper swords if he didn’t know how to use them, after all.

He tamped the urge to twirl both weapons simultaneously to show off. Hastur scowled nonetheless, picked up one of the daggers stabbing the earth and tried to throw it. He had horrible aim, much to Aziraphale’s relief. He staggered backwards and fell over a log. The other assassin reached them then. Hastur’s new partner had a smaller build but had a more terrifying air about them.

A shower of arrows rained down on the two assassins and Aziraphale didn’t waste his chance to retreat. His mistake was turning his back on the two as he felt something pierce his side.

* * *

Crowley paniced as he heard Aziraphale’s scream. He must have missed one of Beel’s knives. He was scrambling to notch another arrow but Beel had somehow reached the blonde and had sported longer daggers to parry off against his cutlasses. He couldn’t shoot without the danger of injuring Aziraphale further. And the angel _was_ injured. A dark spot was beginning to bloom slowly on his tan cloak but he didn’t surrender. He was inching his way towards the rocky slope and their escape.

Hastur was struggling to right himself, wobbling towards the sword-fight, hand stretched to grab Aziraphale. Crowley aimed straight for Hastur’s palm. The man squealed in agony.

Aziraphale seemed to be getting the upper hand. Crowley leaped to land on one of the larger boulders and notched another arrow, aiming at Beel’s shoulder but they were moving too fast.

“Come on angel, just pin her down for three seconds and I swear I won’t miss,” he muttered as his eyes zeroed in on the two below him.

As if in answer, Aziraphale doubled his efforts and Beel was overwhelmed. Like Crowley, she wasn’t a fan of close-quarter fights. But she had trained, unlike him. Crowley watched her spitting in outrage at being bested by what she must have thought was a simple blacksmith. She brought her daggers to strike at Aziraphale’s side but was blocked. The blonde had locked their weapons together and Crowley took the momentary clash to aim at Beel’s shoulder. The force of his shot made her jerk back but one of her blades sliced through Aziraphale’s tunic from his stomach to just under the armpit.

Crowley cursed as both bodies sank to the forest floor. He rushed to Aziraphale’s side with a litany of “ _Sorry, I’m sorry_.”

He heard a dry laugh from Beel who was trying to pluck the arrow out her shoulder. He quickly lifted the blonde and steered him towards the least vertical path to climb the slope. He groaned looking over at Aziraphale’s obvious discomfort. He had dropped one of the swords, using the other as a cane, his other hand held a bloody knife and he despaired to see the stain on his cloak triple in size.

“We have no other way out but up, angel. Can you make it?”

* * *

Gritting his teeth, Aziraphale willed himself to not pass out from blood loss. He kept a firm hand on the stab wound and turned to climb the mountain side with Crowley supporting him, just as a knife stuck itself into the area where his heels had been. He heard Crowley curse.

“Fuck, she's relentless!” he steered them towards a scraggle of bony trees clinging to the side of the boulders. Every few feet they could hear a knife hitting the rocks at their feet, dislodging pebbles here and there. Crowley wrenched a large plank of peeling bark and slung it behind them like a wing. It didn’t offer much protection and had slowed them down a tad but Beel’s throws were aimed at them and it was better than having nothing to hide behind.

“Gah! How many knives does she have?” Aziraphale grunts as one blade scraped their makeshift cover.

“I don't know!” **_Thunk_**. “Too many to count, that’s for sure!” **_Thunk_**.

“Argh! The way those things whiz past, you’d think they’re irritating flies,” the blonde flinches as one blade snagged the hem of his coat. “We can’t win can we?”

“Nope.”

“Righty-o, then. Time for Plan B.”

They jump behind a wind-swept tree trunk. “And that is?”

Beaming at him, Aziraphale broke off a branch and used it as a lever to dislodge several boulders at their feet. He sent them at the general direction where the knives originated from. Crowley took his makeshift shield and did the same. Soon, a flurry of large stones were bumbling down towards the two figures in the distance. They didn’t wait for any sign of whether or not they hit their target. They ran towards the jagged crown above them.

They heard thunder from above and hurried their steps. They zigzagged between the rocks. Crowley led Aziraphale to what looked like a dead end, but before he could question it, he slid to the side and disappeared. The blonde quickly did the same and saw a tall gash hidden in shadows. It was almost invisible but there was no doubt what it was – the rift in the side of the mountain.

Crowley’s arms beckoned him in as the first of the rain drops fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you didn't get a headache with all of that.
> 
> The story get more 'plot-ty' after this.


	17. Breached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After escaping the clutches of his Guild-mates, Crowley thought they would finally be able to relax. Little did he know, what little braincells he had left were about to be fried.
> 
> Or: Crowley gets a metaphorical slap to the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be changes around here folks!
> 
> (Despite the summary, this is going to be Aziraphale POV.)

Lightning flashed and the rain started pelting his back as Aziraphale dashed into the dark chasm promising a relative sense of safety.

“Sorry,” Crowley said as he neared. He was panting and leaning every at the cave's entrance. “Never thought they’d find me that easily,” he pulled the blonde further into the dark to escape the spray and biting winds. He directed him to lie against a wall before turning back. Aziraphale could hear his fumbling. Another flash of lighting startled them both but it had helped the red-head find what he was after.

“Stroke of luck, angel,” the red-head said, as fire bloomed nearby. Aziraphale wondered where he found an armload of firewood. He had arranged them in the middle of the stone floor. “We made it before the storm. And the rain would wash away our tracks, besides making the trek up here slippery enough to count as suicidal.”

The blonde only groaned and clutched his side. The blood had soaked through most of his clothes, he tried to keep still to lessen the bleeding. “Great,” he breathed out hoarsely. “Now I’ll never get the stain out,” he mumbled clutching at his cloak.

Crowley chuckled weakly, “You’ll live.” The archer was trying for indifference but landed on concerned instead. He was darting about the inside of the cave. Aziraphale could feel the manic energy pouring off him. “I’ll keep the fire going while you rest.”

Aziraphale tried to sit up straighter and peeled off his outer layers of clothing, grimacing at his tattered state. He gritted his teeth and hissed as his movements irritated his injuries.

“I can make a paste that can lessen the sting from your cuts and the stab wound,” Crowley offered as the warm orange glow filled the space further. “You’re still conscious, which, based on experience is a good sign. I’ve got everything I need here. Mind, I don’t heal anyone but myself, so I need you to prep yourself and think that I very much know what I’m doing.” He rummaged through his bag and brought out a wooden box.

In it Aziraphale saw a few pouches of herbs, oils, a small bowl and a pestle. He began measuring out ingredients and bounding over to the cave’s entrance to catch rainwater to add to his mixture. On his way back, he took a jug and a blanket from an alcove set behind a chunk of the cave wall.

“I hide supplies around the forest,” he said meekly in answer to Aziraphale’s confused look. “Found this place a year back. Call it my third alternative rendezvous point. Just somewhere to crash when the Guild would drive me insane or when I need to remind myself to calm down.” He passed the blanket to Ash. The jug was stoppered with wax and the grin Crowley sported told him it was most definitely _not_ water. “We’ll share this but save some to disinfect your cuts.”

The blonde could only smirk back. He let the echoing sounds of rain lull his nerves and push the adrenaline away from his system. Not wanting to look helpless, though, he opened his pack to scour for bandages and a clean shirt to use. He startled as the red-head kneeled next to him.

“Alright, let’s get you sorted. The quicker we heal you, the faster we get to think of what we should do next,” Crowley stated as he inspected the contents of the bowl he’d been cradling. He didn’t notice his friend’s sudden stillness and petrified expression. “The Witch said there was some kind of passageway here. Can’t say I’ve found it yet, but there is a spring further back. I’ll get you some water to drink later, and I could maybe make something warm, broth or something. I stashed some salted meat here last week. I – Angel, are you alright?” he asked as he finally looked up.

The blonde’s mouth felt dry. He flinched as the archer touched his shoulder. The hand retreated but the worry in the man's honeyed eyes increased.

“I’m fine! Fine,” he choked out. The incredulous look the archer shot him told him he wasn’t convinced. “You could hand that to me and I’ll, ah, tend to myself,” Aziraphale said weakly. Crowley stared at him, confusion clearly etched on his face. “I mean, I-I don’t want to inconvenience you. You could, you know, take a nap while I do that, yes, you need rest as much as I do.”

“Don’t be daft, Aziraphale. It’s my fault you’re injured,” he rubbed he back of his neck. “I mean, if you hadn’t helped the first time, and you’ve technically just saved my life twice now you know, the least I could do is this…” he waved the poultice about and sighed. “Just… just let me help, yeah?” he stammered out in the end.

“Oh, Crowley,” _I do want you to help, but not now, not like this_ , the blonde wailed internally. “It’s not that, I, uhm… you see…” he was getting nowhere with his words, his mind was coming out blank as well. He just didn’t know how to voice his sudden need for decency, without scaring the archer away. “You could, ah- could you, er… maybe turn your back for a while? I’m just too much of a mess right now.” he squirmed under the red-head’s golden gaze. He knew it was a lame excuse.

“Why?” Crowley asked, setting the the bowl containing the musky paste aside and crossing his arms. “I’m not partial to blood, I was a hunter. I won’t faint. Promise,” he grinned. “I’ll wrap your bandages for you so they’ll keep.” He tried to tug on the blood-soaked tunic.

“No!” The cave echoed with the shout. They both winced. “Uh, I mean no, no thank you. I can do them myself, so can you please look out the cave and stay like that until I tell you to come back?”

“Look, stop being difficult and just let me take care of you, you bastard!” Crowley gave an almighty tug and the bloodied tunic came off.

Crowley blinked.

The scene he saw, Aziraphale knew, was this:

Bandages pooled around a soft midriff, cut loose from their bindings – the unexpected consequence of Beel’s dagger ripping through them. Milky-white skin, too pale from being hidden underneath layers and layers of cloth, stretched to form a torso and expanding to encase two rather plump globs of fat – each sporting a coral pink nub perking up in attention as they were exposed to the cold evening air.

“Hold on…” the red-head squeaked, eyebrows shooting to meet his hairline, the black slits of his snake eyes flaring against the expanding yellow. “Y-you’re a female!”

“I told you to look away!” Aziraphale tried to gather the scraps of cloth (and what little dignity she had left) around her, hissing at the pain each movement brought. But the pain was more than welcome. It was infinitely better than the mortification she was currently being suffocated in.

“When did this happen?”

“Clearly, from the moment I was born.” She snapped, giving up on the useless strips of cloth. She settled by pulling her shirt tighter to hide her bare chest. Bandages had kept most of her breasts at bay. But as the months got on, it had become harder to restrain them. She needed them flat thus requiring padding for her stomach to at least keep a semblance of proportion similar to a man’s figure. She took to wearing baggy clothing to hide most of her form, but her bosom had grown far too rapidly in her opinion. A year or two more and she could never be able to hide her identity anymore. The terror of Gabriel or his steward finding out was the tipping point in her decision to run away. “Now, can you please stop ogling so I can patch _myself_ up!”

“Ngk, right, sorry.” Crowley blushed, shooting up and turning to run out the cave despite the downpour but another flash of lightning caught him off-guard. He made a u-turn, steadfastly ignoring the blonde and strode in the opposite direction. “I’ll, guh, uhm, look for that spring, be back soon!” he called behind him without looking back.

Aziraphale turned her back to him as well, then busied herself with cleaning her marred skin and applying the poultice. The cuts were shallow, thanks to the many layers she hid herself in, but the force of the attacks made sure the blades breached her skin. The stab wound, she found, tore a gash at her side. It looked and felt gruesome but it was far enough away from any internal organs. She grabbed clean bandages from her pack, and wound them around her midriff. Her injuries would have been more fatal but the extra layers of cloth had taken most of the blows.

She looked at her tunic sighing at the damage and pulled her pack closer. She was hunting for another shirt but found none. What her fingers drew out, instead was dress. She felt her blood freeze. Another flurried dig into her pack gave her a corset and three other similar outfits. She would have wailed had she any voice available. She got gotten used to dressing like a man that she felt uncomfortable at the thought of wearing skirts. It was the Witch. No doubt about that.

She remembered how they were shoved away from the cottage leaving the mess Shadow made of her pack. She found her tunics and breeches gone but all her other possessions retained. She felt the betrayal like a punch to her gut. The woman knew her secret even before she had her swim in the pool behind the cottage. It had all been planned!

Scowling at the old woman’s meddling, she bundled herself in one of the dresses and grappled at the corset’s straps. eyes Halfway through the ordeal, she was palming her stinging eyes and wiping her damp cheeks. All the twisting about, was painful. Her anger had her hands shaking too much that they knotted the corset’s strings and was unable to loosen them again. It was all so very frustrating.

She gathered her bloodied clothes instead and flung them the cave mouth unto a nearby rock to let the rain rinse of the worst of the blood. She was mad enough that the body pains barely registered. She took the blanket Crowley had offered earlier and wrapped it around shoulders. Perhaps the red-head could untangle the strings and help her navigate her clothing. He probably wouldn’t know how to wear them either but having someone to share her misery was motivation enough to ask.

Aziraphale assembled a torch and delved deeper into the darker recesses of their shelter. She found the man lying on his back, eyes shut tight, by a bubbling spring. He had a harrowed look plastered to his face, limbs slack and sprawled every which way. There was no blood and he didn’t look pained, just exhausted.

She sidled over. Hearing her steps, the red-head bolted upright arms and legs flailing. His face was redder in the torch-light and the blonde was sure his sputtering resembled words no one else could decipher.

“You can come back out now,” she sighed. It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Were you really content with "My name is Aziraphale, not Ash" as the answer to Agnes' advice to Crowley? :))
> 
> I may be making a mess of things but there were little fem!azi fics before I started this, so I gave in to self-indulgence. I wanted to tag "Fem!Aziraphale" and "Aziraphale gets to play around with gender this time" but I didn't want to ruin the surprise.
> 
> Bandaging the chest bit was me remembering a scene from The Song of the Lioness by Tamora Pierce.
> 
> When I was putting this whole fic together, I was only confident with the intro and that tunic-tugging scene. (Confident as a plot-point, not the writing, :D )


	18. One More Tale to Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of assault and torture.
> 
> And we have another backstory. As heavy as the first, but answers many questions.
> 
> The plot moves along in the next chapter. :)

Somehow the evening’s exertions and surprises had a numbing effect to both humans huddling inside a crack in the Southern Ridges. One red-haired, lanky and all in black was tending the fire and a pot bubbling with cubes of cured meat. The other a white-blonde female, who, only hours before had looked more like a portly young fellow with feminine features, easy manners and soothing voice.

The blonde was still soft, and the red-head was still too lean, but both were wishing they were well and truly sloshed.

* * *

Aziraphale had managed to wrangle Crowley’s help with her corset. It had been loosened then tightened accordingly. They had fitted it to hold her bandages in place. She felt constricted but not uncomfortable. The bandages she had tied around herself for years had been tighter, and the corset was a little more forgiving with her breasts. She apologized repeatedly for her incompetence at the task. The red-head merely growled. Neither were familiar with the accessory but they muddled through somehow. The sheer amount of concentration they used to unknotting, lacing and retying strings dampened any awkwardness the actions may have solicited.

Crowley then busied himself with making the promised broth, muttering that it was a blessing that it wasn’t too complicated a task for his current mental state. Aziraphale let him bustle about to dispel his anxious mood. As she was handed her share of their hot dinner and both had settled on the cave floor, she knew their current predicament had to be addressed.

“Aren’t you going to ask questions?” she asked tentatively, but smiled despite herself, remembering the same question Crowley threw at her the day they met.

“That depends on whether or not you’d answer them?” weariness was both in the red-head’s voice, eyes and stance, the after effects of adrenaline running its course.

They made themselves comfortable, leaning against the wall, bags in between them.

“Maybe I should start from the beginning then,” she sighed. The archer simply nodded.

“We came from an old keep in the east. Not Gabriel’s, no. A real noble, though I forgot their name as they rarely interacted with the common folk. My father was that lord’s official blacksmith since he finished his apprenticeship. I was born there. He was never cross for having a daughter, but mother and I both knew he wanted a son.” A breath.

“He had endeavored to teach me a little of his craft anyway so that I could help, but still looked for a male apprentice. My mother, on the other hand, had taught me how to bake because I asked her to. She was always at the kitchens, with all the other maids so I wasn’t as useful there. Besides, she said I did better at stealing the biscuits than actually helping make them,” she said a small wistful voice. “So, most times I had to search for my own amusement.”

“But I was very much interested with metal work, so I stayed at the workshop until I was shooed out. Making weapons meant I had to learn what they looked like and how to wield them. Thoroughness was a specific peeve of mine and I wasn’t content with the basics. I was not very feminine even before then. Kept my hair hidden in a cap, but my mother wouldn’t dream of cutting them off, she loved braiding it,” she let her hands run across her shoulder length hair and absentmindedly plaiting them.

“And I had to wear tunics and breeches in the smithy. No sense in ruining a good dress. Ran to the armory where the guards would sometimes teach the local boys. Took them six weeks before they realized I wasn’t like them.” Her eyes held a glint of mischief. “By then, though I was already able to take them down. I was lighter on my feet and the coal shoveling and anvil work had helped me build muscles. Though you won’t notice with the extra layers of fat.”

Crowley snorted beside her, an admission that he had also been fooled.

“The lord’s general had a good laugh and offered to teach me more. He said I would make a better soldier than the rest. The others were too hateful. I never knew why being a girl would let them think I ought to have been weaker.” Crowley huffed, waving his hands about to signify he didn’t hold the same sentiment then nodded for her to go on.

“But the general would leave with the lord most times and the others would scorn me outright. So, I took to haunting the keep’s library when there was very little to fiddle with at the workshop. That time though, I wore skirts. I didn’t hate dresses then, my mother helped me with all this,” she indicated the corset. “I actually quite liked them even. They were just not practical most of the times. Anyway, the staff believe girls are less of a nuisance, and welcomed the meeker-looking me.

“There I met a noblewoman, five years my senior. Her name was Alice, the lord’s niece. She and I became friends when I asked her to teach me how to read and write,” she shrugged at Crowley’s disbelieving stare, nobles were usually too stand-offish to care. “We were both bored and neglected. She gave me this,” the blonde pulled out the volume with reverent fingers and showed it to the archer. “’Something to remember her by,’ she said.”

There was silence as Aziraphale took back her memento and started flipping through the pages and feeling the accompanying calm it always gave her.

“Sounded like a good enough life…” Crowley commented, letting the sentence run, waiting for the next part of the story as he stoked the fire. Their food forgotten, but neither noticed.

“The lord’s son found me with her one time. I was just twelve. He was too drunk but had enough mind to tell himself I’d make a good toy,” she sneered at the fire. The memory of that day came back to her. She and Alice were walking back from the river behind the castle after one of their reading sessions. “He had pulled me away from his cousin and slammed me up a wall, hiking up my skirts.”

Crowley stopped agitating the embers, his eyes revealed a mixture of dread and anger. His knuckles were white as he gripped his makeshift poker.

“Alice had smacked her cousin’s head hard with the book she carried, enough for him to let me go. I ran off quickly. Alice, followed me seconds later with a bloodied nose, warning my parents that her cousin would be after our family. But the lord’s son was already at our door.”

“My father begged him to spare us. But the man whipped my father and dragged him out the cottage to humiliate him further.” Aziraphale’s eyes blurred with tears as her mind replayed the scene.

“He tied his arms and had a horse drag him across the cobbles. His back and legs bleed until there was a trail of red behind the galloping animal. The man paid it no attention. Thankfully, it took only two circuits to satisfy him.” She still recalled the blood staining his father’s clothes. And then blood mixing in with her and her mother’s tears as they nursed him. They had feared he wouldn't be able to walk again. “Never could face the sound of hoof-beats properly after that.”

She shook himself. “He gave us three more days there before we were kicked out. I wondered if they blamed me for our eviction. They reassured me many times that they never were. The night before we were sent away, I told my mother what the lord’s son attempted to do to me. She cut my hair off fashioning it to what a boy’s would look like. I felt her tears on the back of my neck as she did so. We sold off my dresses and skirts,” she sighed heavily, the action causing her to wince. Crowley made to move towards her but she waved him off. It wasn’t the first time she bled, and she’s pretty sure it will not be the last.

“It’s pretty depressing being a female, you know,” she smiled halfheartedly, once she got her breathing even again. “I could never allude to what I am. I kept the bandages tight. Gabriel thought I kept stealing food with such a figure. I need the padding, besides, I inherited my mother’s plumpness and her baking skills. It was better being called fat than being sold off to the brothels back then… or worse.” She finally took a sip from her bowl, trying to dispel the tension.

“Wouldn’t put it past him.” Crowley didn’t hide his scowl.

Aziraphale kept quiet then. She had had a hard life but the things that happened, she could never really change. What the future may bring her would be a complete surprise. She glanced at Crowley who kept a stoic eye on the dying fire.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to stay with me. I can take care of myself,” she hated becoming a burden. Crowley looked at her determinedly.

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, angel,” he drawled. “But it’s you who’s been keeping me alive. Hate to say it, but I’m more the damsel in distress this past few days than you are.” She couldn’t help but laugh at that.

* * *

Crowley kept watch while his companion dozed. It had come as a shock the when his – her shirt opened. How she could have hidden her chest, he couldn’t imagine. They almost burst from the bindings. He shifted uncomfortably and suppressed a groan.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen breasts before, hiding in dark places tend to make it easier to see other people in compromising situations. And with the company he kept, or rather forced to accompany, he got acquainted with the seedier parts of town. But he never did take anyone to bed. His father frequented the establishments there. And he’d rather not know who among the crowd his old man had touched, may they be male or female, he was never picky. He despised his father and his practices to seek out pleasure, but mainly because it hurt his mother. He knew even though she did her best to hide it.

Besides, Crowley’s vice was alcohol. Most of the money he’s made went to help his ailing mother and picking between spending what little he had over sex or wine, he chose the latter. But that didn’t mean he was immune… If she hadn’t covered herself, he would have done something he would have definitely regretted.

He sighed and looked over at the sleeping figure, barely noticeable in the dark. He was beyond awed for her spunk at this point. She should have been traumatized by what would have happened to her, but he saw how she looked while recounting her story. It was not something Crowley had seen on her before. Pure hatred. It reminded him how much of a threat she could be if she dared. She was just too good to fight people outright, giving them the chance at redemption.

That Gabriel sounded like a downright prick, too. If anyone had found out about her identity… he clenched his fists. She would never have kept her home and profession. An unmarried woman without a father had no real value as a person. And to think she could both make and wield a sword. He shook his head slowly. Here was a woman holding her own in a world where men ruled. If he hadn’t already fallen for Ash, the gentle bastard, he would have worshiped Aziraphale, the angelic warrior. Then again, they’re the same soul. One he’d gladly fawn over if she let him. He never knew how to woo a man, but he’s often seen how to court a woman.

The next morning Crowley found Aziraphale reheating the broth. He pushed himself from the wall he was leaning on. The blanket he gave her the night before fell off his shoulders.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His neck felt like it was almost hacked off. With a grunt, he gave it a twist earning him a satisfying crack.

“That’s fine. You were battered and tired, too,” she smiled at him as he stretched and cracked joints to bring blood rushing back into his veins. “I should have woken myself earlier to take your place.”

“Nah, you needed the rest,” he studied her for a few minutes. “You look like you’re feeling better,” he remarked.

“I am, thankfully,” she sighed. “I’ve had worse wounds.” Crowley frowned but she didn’t see. They were silent as they ate.

“Better look for the Witch’s tunnel, then,” he chugged the last of the warm liquid down his throat. “Or do you need another night to heal your wounds?”

“I think I can manage.” Crowley saw her move towards the strips of cloth she had already washed and dried by the mouth of the cave, gathering them back into her pack. “Just let me change my bandages.”

Crowley swiftly made her another bowlful of poultice then led her back to the spring so she could clean herself. He went back to tidy up their camp. He was almost done hiding his supplies when he heard a muffled cry behind him. He almost rushed back to the blonde, before remembering why he shouldn’t. He called out instead, asking if everything was fine.

He heard a huff then a pained gasp.

“Aziraphale…” he couldn’t quite hide the worry in his voice.

“It’s nothing really. I promise,” she cried earnestly. “The gash at my side just started opening up again after all my twisting about.”

“Anything serious?” he asked, voice even.

“Just the normal bit of blood.” She hissed again.

“Need help getting your strings redone?” the red-head asked after the whispers of discomfort died down. It was greeted with a contemplative silence, but it was soon replaced by a resigned sigh.

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble, it's all that's keeping me here," the blonde complained.

"No trouble at all, angel," he chuckled as he passed the bit of wall that separated them.

There was less tension and swearing the second time around. The good news was, he was getting better. The bad news, he was less distracted and was unfortunately too aware of the skin he knew was under the layers of clothing. He made sure to touch only when required, otherwise, he held onto the strings like a lifeline.

“Thank you, my dear,” the blonde said softly as the last knot was set. And that utterance was the final nail in the coffin for the poor archer. A sudden flurry of images played in his mind – mornings of tying Aziraphale’s corset for her, and _thanks yous_ whispered as they watched the sun creep higher in the sky. His hands smoothing out wrinkles on her sleeves and running through her white-blonde tresses to braid them. The implied domesticity of the pictures bowled him over and had him grabbing for the wall. Thankfully the blonde didn’t notice. But his mind was stuck on endless replay. He could feel the want singing in his blood, but will Aziraphale want the same?

“…will you?” he heard the blonde ask. He started.

“Er, sorry… what?” He was surprised he was still able to string three words together.

“I asked for you to show me the Witch's candle,” she said slowly, watching him with concern. “She gave us instructions to light it.”

“Wh – Yeah, it’s in my coat,” he struggled to push all his fantasies aside. They were still in danger. Beel might come back with reinforcements. “Just a little farther,” he sighed to himself but the blonde still heard.

“Yes,” she whispered back. “A few more steps to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dresses and skirts really are an inconvenience.
> 
> We're using she/her pronouns now because the patriarchy does not ask women for their opinion (at least in this fic). There will be more toxic masculine figures in the later chapters. And it sort of gives the distinction between the male-presenting Ash, hiding in fear and our warrior Queen who will learn to love herself (hopefully). Aziraphale wore men's clothing because she thinks being seen as a woman will attract more problems. She just wants to be independent. Agnes wants to give her confidence, and perhaps mess with Crowley's head a little more.
> 
> Not to mention I may or may not be thinking of a sequel where they get children. :D


	19. An Unexpected Ally

Candlelight permeated the dark walls as Crowley and Aziraphale walked. It had come as a shock to them when a whole wall melted in front of their eyes revealing the tunnel they dragged themselves through. The candle had looked ordinary enough with six inches of lumpy wax and a dubious looking wick, but it had surprisingly kept aflame and didn’t melt in Crowley’s hand. To retract from another mental breakdown, he kept the blonde talking. Their voices low but echoing once in a while.

“I don’t think It would be wise if you were seen travelling with a woman, we make pretty good target,” Aziraphale voiced, as they turned to the topic of what they would be doing once they passed through to the other side of the mountains. She had agonized over the loss of her tunic and breeches, besides the pair that had been covered in blood.

Crowley couldn’t dispute the fact. He had been a highwayman and knew women were weak links in travelling parties. Easy to scare, and the others too distracted trying to keep them safe. “I’m pretty sure we can handle them. You’re too good,” he grinned at her. “Besides I don’t know how long we’ll have to stay in that village and where. A traveling couple might find better lodgings than a pair of men who look like they could raise hell. We’d be kicked out the door quicker than you could say apples.” He chuckled remembering the Witch.

He heard a soft giggle followed by a pained gasp. “Please stop making me laugh, my dear,” the blonde said, likely recalling the same memory. “It is not helping my situation. But to be frank, I was only caught in that situation thanks to your foolishness,” the reprimand came out teasing, making the red-head forego the idea that Aziraphale had resented being roped into chore work when he had done absolutely nothing wrong.

“All part of the contract, I’m afraid – all my foolishness and its consequences,” he gave the blonde a side-glance. “The day you staved off my would-have-been assassination, you just roped yourself a demon,” he thumped his chest dramatically and was rewarded an eye roll. He grinned, “And I’m not easy to shake off.”

“Is that so?” she was smiling, then suddenly a confused expression graced her face, “Couple?”

“Oh, er. I – Well, we – we could say we’re married so no one bats an eye that we’re together,” he kept his voice cool and aloof, definitely the opposite of what his actual feelings were. He could already feel his cheeks warm. Thankfully it was dark. The idea when it took root had since plagued him. And now his mouth had to run off ahead of him. To his credit though, it wasn’t helping that the subject of his daydreams was an arm’s length away. He already felt weak at the idea of calling her his wife.

He sneaked a peek at her reaction. She looked as flustered as he felt. Neither of them knew what lay beyond the rocks, but he knew he didn’t want to face all that without her. He needed to choose his words carefully so as not to scare her off. “Besides,” he continued, “New place, new life… it could get pretty lonely tackling that alone.” He heard how raw his own voice was. He supposed after all the talk of family he had suddenly remembered the hollowness of knowing there was no one else to share your life with. “Be nicer with a friend around,” he finished lamely.

The blonde didn’t reply readily. And for a while, the only sound were their feet and the occasional drip-drip of water somewhere. “I admit that could be a good idea,” she said softly. “We can’t possibly pass ourselves as family, when we look nothing alike,” she mused. “And if we could pass that off, I’d rather not try to bat off possible suitors. Troublesome business, really,” she smiled at him. “I’m afraid I might have to impose upon your companionship a little more, at least until my wound heals. I would not want to keep you from doing the things you actually wanted to do.”

Crowley tried to hide his excitement and he steered their talk to lighter topics until both forgot about their petty uncertainties but safe in the knowledge that they would have someone to be with.

They emerged from the rock-face and a breeze snuffed out their candle. The tunnel entrance disappeared completely and a cursory sweep with his palm told Crowley that there was nothing to indicate it had been there at all.

He sighed and decided to forego any comment. He can’t exactly say he wanted to go back. And somehow it felt like they had barricaded themselves from the worst of their worries. Not rid of them, no. They still didn’t know what they were throwing themselves into.

They emerged into the late morning sun. The trees and grass looked normal. He should have known that it wasn’t the land of the fae, but with all the fantastical talk of the place, he imagined something more impressionable.

“Better start finding that Anathema person while there’s still light out,” he said aloud. “The faster we do, the more time we get to look around the place.” The blonde nodded and they shuffled forwards and found a path, breathing easier the farther they went from the mountains.

“ **Finally**.”

Beel’s voice could freeze Crowley more effectively than any other threat. Almost all his nightmares started with that voice calling out his name. He only had time to remove his bow from his back before it was forced out of his hands. He felt fire race up his left leg and her boots connected with his chest, sending him sprawling towards Aziraphale’s feet.

The blonde reached for the cutlass she stole the night before, jumping over Crowley, and instantly began sparring with Beel. The woman just laughed at her face. “Last night not enough for you? Oh! I am loving this! It's been a while since I had this much fun!” The two women parried and thrusted. Aziraphale made sure her opponent couldn’t access space to throw any more of her annoying knives.

Their movements had Aziraphale’s hood and cloak falling to reveal her dress, curls coming away from her braid, splaying out around her face.

Beel’s eyes widened, but arms never faltered in meeting the blonde’s blade. “Hold on, you're - ”

“Is it really that hard to believe?” Aziraphale huffed, cutting off her exclamation.

Beel swung her sword to deflect her opponent’s one last time, dropped it and held up her hands.

Crowley was sputtering as he hobbled closer to the blonde. How he would have helped, he wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t leave her to fight alone again. When Beel surrendered he got apprehensive. A dropped blade from Beel meant two hands ready to throw other weapons at a moment’s notice. But to Crowley’s surprise, Beel attacked no further but, instead, sat down on the ground across from them, smiling lazily. Aziraphale stayed on his feet between her companion and his old acquaintance.

Beel waved her hands flippantly. “Oh, I’m not here for him,” she cocked her head in Crowley’s direction but kept her eyes on Aziraphale. “I was actually looking for you. Don’t know if the snake told you yet, but some hotshot noble wannabe was looking for a runaway blacksmith. Sounded suspiciously like you.” She brought out a knife, making the other two stiffen, and started cleaning it on a cloth she had tied to her waist. “The man was an asshole,” she said slowly. “Every noble I’d met with are of course. But his offer was tempting.”

“That sounds interesting,” the blonde piped up. “But the man you’re looking for is not here.”

“Isn’t he?” she asked, looking Aziraphale over. The blonde simply smiled at her, despite her ready stance. “Now that I think about it,” she continued grinning, and put away her blade. “You don’t talk like the blacksmiths I know and you definitely don’t look like a man.”

To Crowley’s amazement Aziraphale sheathed her sword and primly sat herself down, giving in to the temporary truce.

“You’re going to have girl-talk right now?” Crowley glowered. “I’m bleeding here!”. Both women rolled their eyes. The blonde took a quick glance at him then sighed. “I see no blood pooling underneath you. You’ll live.” Crowley clucked at the blonde, who was parroting his words from the night before. “Besides….” she turned her back to him again, sitting straighter. “When I had the same injury, you had me climbing up the side of a mountain and straining to roll boulders down the same slope.”

“Oi, I remember that!” Beel clucked at them, but it held no bite. She was warming up to the prissy blonde before her. Beel rarely found women fighting against or even alongside men. They were far and few in between in that day and age, and she was starting to tire of having to look and act tough. Although she was, in fact, deadly enough without her acting. “The hard part was getting Hastur to stand up so that he wouldn’t get flattened. You’re acting the same he was really, and his only real injury was a hole in his _palm,_ ” she spat at Crowley.

“Oh, dear,” the blonde giggled. It wasn’t long until Beel joined her. Crowley didn’t know if his jaw could drop further. He was at a loss at what to do besides press the stab would on his thigh to stopper the flow of blood further.

“You’ll still be able to walk with that, you know,” Beel said glancing at Crowley’s thigh.

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Aziraphale chirped and Crowley couldn’t help but be distracted with Aziraphale’s uplifted tone. But scowled as she continued. “He’s never been able to walk properly even when he’s not wounded, or sober!” she tittered. Crowley growled ‘Bully’ under his breath and made Beel cackle.

“That’s from him falling down too many trees while hiding from sparring practice.”

“Oi, I didn’t give you permission to talk about my childhood now, did I?”

“Well, if you hadn’t run away then, you wouldn’t have been too dependent on your arrows and we could have avoided all this talking,” she quipped.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be good little boys,” Crowley mumbled. He decided to ignore the two and tend to his cut properly. Clearly, both women were just starting their chat. He listened halfheartedly, suffering in peace.

“So, how long did it take before he noticed?” Beel started.

“After the boulder drop, to tend to my wounds. He almost tackled me to the ground when I said I wanted to clean myself up. He didn’t take the hint, until he got my tunic off.” Crowley was blushing, thankfully not seen by Aziraphale, but in full view of Beel who looked way too happy with that news.

“I knew you weren’t much of a ladies’ man, but that was a little too forward, don’t you think Crowley?” she sniggered.

“Guh. Look she said she was a man, so I treated her like a man.”

“Can’t blame her for that,” she turned back to Aziraphale, lips quirking up. The comment held a little too much weight and although the red-head wanted to delve into it more, he got sidetracked by the Hunter's smile. It looked far too soft that it made Crowley question if it was the same ruthless killer he had known. She was the Guild’s second-in-command, its Prince. And she was being gentle! He shook his head, wondering if he had hit it after taking the blow to the thigh.

“There’s still the matter of me having to find Ash, the blacksmith,” Crowley noted Beel’s disinterested tone. He knew she just didn’t want to come back empty-handed.

“That won’t be necessary, my dear. Ash is gone. Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Aziraphale, a baker,” she placed emphasis on her name and her proposed profession.

“Where has Ash gone then?” the Hunter played along.

“Ravaged by wolves after getting lost in the woods. Here,” Aziraphale rummaged in her pack and took out her bloodstained shirt. “He marks our clothing to signify our fealty,” she snickered.

“Hmmm…” They could see Beel consider the story, then took the offered piece of clothing. “Seems believable enough. I won’t be expected to tug along a corpse and if they ask where the body was, it could have conveniently been dragged away by some other predator when they reach the spot. I get my money for his wild-goose chase and see his face turn puce from anger,” she smirked, finalizing her tale. “Anyway, the south is not our territory. We’ve made a truce here. I can’t take you as prisoner. We’re not allowed to meddle.”

“What d’you call this, then?” Crowley gestured at his leg.

“That was just payback for my shoulder. And you’re still talking so it didn’t kill you,” she took out a bag of coins and threw it at Crowley. “That was your share for the last heist. Hastur and Ligur were idiots. They told me you ran off with the pot, until I heard them fighting on how best to divide the thing.” Crowley eyed the bag warily. “I don’t know what you see in this pathetic excuse for a snake,” Beel quirked an eyebrow at the blonde.

Crowley couldn’t see her face fully, but he could see the edges of Aziraphale’s cheeks turn pink in. To Crowley’s disappointment, Beel didn’t push the matter, and started to stand. The blonde did the same.

“The least you could do is buy her a prettier dress,” she assessed Aziraphale’s grimy cloak and coarse cloth dress. “Those don’t really fit you, dove.” The blonde smiled sweetly at the pet name. “They don’t help make you look flattering.” Aziraphale absent-mindedly smoothed her skirts and corset.

Crowley hissed, a pang of jealousy prickling his traitorous heart. They’d gone from killing each other to whatever the hell was happening. He whispered a few choice adjectives at his ex-boss but hadn’t counted on both of them hearing him. Two sets of angry voices berated him.

“Oi!” Beel shouted.

“That’s not very nice,” came from Aziraphale.

He flinched, anticipating more of his blood to hit the grass. Feeling nothing, he peered out to find two of them simply glaring at him.

“And after she refrained from killing both of us and being exceptionally nice,” the blonde mumbled in exasperation. Crowley wanted to point out that Beel stabbed her the night before and wasn’t being very nice to _him_ , but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

“He’s not worth it, dove. All men are assholes,” she sighed. Aziraphale reached out to her and their hands met.

“You’re stuck with him, aren’t you?”

“I’ll get used to him,” she teased, which made the other woman laugh again.

“Don’t worry. When you reach the coast, you might not need him. The town’s Duke is very open-minded.” She gave one last squeeze to Aziraphale’s hand and marched back the way she came, slipping back into her Hunter’s persona. Aziraphale was watching her wistfully. _Ugh_ , Crowley thought, _she would_ _actually want to see her again_.

“Oh, and I’m taking this with me as tribute to the Guild!” Beel called back holding out the red-head’s bow, already snapped in half.

Crowley whimpered at the sight. All other thoughts swiped aside. That was _his_ bow. He understood the symbolism, breaking away from the guild meant an exchange – usually the person’s life, sometimes other people’s or a treasured item. That bow was his prized weapon. No one else was allowed to touch it. He had shined it and maintained it himself, fine tuning the string if needed. It was a part of him. It had served him all its life. He had had nothing else to truly call his own. He sank to his knees, ignoring his wound, eyes wretchedly trailing Beel’s retreating back.

“We could have someone make you new a new one when we get to the village,” the blonde said softly.

“No…,” his voice was thick with emotion. He was watching his world disappear. “Can you just –“ he shooed her away. “Let me have a moment here.”

Aziraphale sighed and walked behind him a few paces. She sought a place to settle herself into to wait out Crowley’s ‘moment.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only wanted a little banter between Beel and Aziraphale. A 'you got game, you're good enough to hang out with me' sorta thing. Didn't expect it to bloom into a sisterly kind of love.
> 
> And yes, Aziraphale had forgiven her for the 'trying to kill them' bit. Crowley's a drama queen. Then again, what's new? XD
> 
> Don't worry, Crowley's not a complete mess. He's still trying to get his head on straight. He'll get to properly rescue his angel, too. I promise.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the chapter!


	20. Stepping Into New Boots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale meet the Them, Newt and Anathema.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer because reality came to pound me into the concrete. Not fun. Definitely stressful.
> 
> We'll get more plot after this...

Yellow shafts of light filtered through the trees as they traversed the path through the woods. Here and there were fruit trees laden with their produce. Some wild, other looking more cultivated as they found a more beaten path. Even upset with losing his bow, Crowley couldn’t help but agree with Aziraphale as they walked. His angel waxing on about the beauty around them. Her eyes were shining, the breeze teased her blonde curls and the sunlight bathing her in an ethereal glow.

Aziraphale had discarded her cloak at one point and hid it in her pack, not wishing to alert any of those they might meet. First impressions were powerful things, after all. Her cutlass found itself tied to the red-head’s hip, behind his quiver. Crowley in solidarity hid his own cloak and had opted to change into a more colorful, albeit still dark, tunic. Black was never a good color in the eyes of strangers. But he knew the dark green complemented his hair, which he made sure had enough of a fringe to shield his eyes in addition to his hat’s shadows.

Their outfit changes had proven to be timely as, when reaching another bend in the road, they heard four different voices call out.

“Who goes there?” They sounded young, straining themselves to cry out at the same time, perhaps to intimidate the less perceptive trekkers. One or two faltered at the beginning but compromised on volume as they ended their inquiry. Crowley and Aziraphale glanced at each other, bewildered. The calls surrounded them from all directions.

“Who goes there?” they repeated.

“Just travelers!” Crowley answered back. “We mean no harm, simply passing through!” he added as an afterthought. There was silence, then rustling, as four pairs of legs materialized on to the lower branches of four individual trees lining the path.

“Oh! Children!” Aziraphale cooed. What little trepidation left in the ambush party’s faces faded away at the genuine delight of the blonde. Crowley couldn’t suppress his own smile, although directed only towards his companion. Than smile had disarmed two ruthless assassins, the children held no chance.

“Hello there,” Aziraphale waved to each in turn. There were three boys and a girl, yet dressed the same way as her friends. They looked rowdy but kind and well-fed. They looked to be in no real need to rob. It looked like they were simply playing a game with them.

“Hi!” said one of the rascals, a boy with a mop of curly brown hair. His voice dipped every now and again, revealing his age at the early stages of puberty. They had the sense to stay in their respective perches, eyeing Crowley’s weapons. “Sorry, but you can’t pass without a token. This is our part of the woods, you know?” a mischievous smirk displayed on his bright face.

Crowley snorted at the attempt at extortion from the middling bunch. “Yeah, well I don’t see your names written on it,” he smirked. He’s always found children full of entertaining ideas, and would sometimes borrow their plans for pranks, and making his own to match theirs, to unleash on his most annoying guildmates (usually Hastur and Ligur).

“We have it by our throne,” piped a lanky one, three trunks away from the first speaker. His clothes had traces of dried up mud.

“In our hideout,” squeaked another, almost falling of his branch as he excitedly added his own little tidbit to the conversation. He looked smaller and paler than the first two boys.

“Which is a secret!” cried the girl, throwing her arms up and shooting a pointed glare at her friend, who mumbled an apology and wriggled back to his previous position. She rolled her eyes at him before returning her attention to the couple standing in the middle of the road. “You’re not allowed to see,” she said finally.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley waved his hands emphatically. “We believe you.”

“We didn’t know, forgive us this once?” the blonde entreated, giving each one a small, warm smile. “We really were just walking through.”

“You going to the village, then?” asked the first boy.

“Yeah. That’s the plan,” a thought struck the red-head. “Say, do you know anyone named Anathema?” he asked. He supposed, as they had time to wander the woods, they could also wander the village streets and have perhaps met their target at least once.

“The apothecary owner?” Curly gave his chin a scratch. “We could lead you to her shop. You must be looking to buy her medicines.” He swung himself back down to earth, the rest of his crew following his lead. “We’re supposed to head back, anyway. Come on!”

The children introduced themselves as Adam, Brian, Wensley, and Pepper in the order when they first spoke in between tree branches. Collectively they wished to be called the Them, playing brigands in their wood.

When they reached the edge of the village, they met with the first of the many curious and suspicious glances, but with the gaggle of children around them, clearly warmed up to the newcomers, the scowls lessened. Crowley, for his part, lost himself in Adam’s tales of their adventures out in the woods, and in the winding village streets. The boy was a born storyteller with a penchant for stirring up trouble. The red-head was impressed. Brian trotted behind Adam, while Pepper and Wensley argued behind them, Aziraphale doing her best to be their mediator, answering their questions as best she can.

The group led them to the village square where mud paths turned into cobbled ones and line with sturdier looking buildings, mostly shops. The apothecary stood to the side, wedged between a tavern and a tailor’s shop. Crowley almost didn’t see it as his eyes darted from one to the other of the colorful shopfronts of its neighbors. The darkened windows weren’t very inviting, either. They showcased bottles whose contents he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Adam opened the door with a creak. The inside was brighter than what it had seemed and the décor looked cozier. The endless jars and bottles muted by twice the number of boxes methodologically scattered about. The boy, after a quick sweep of the room and finding no one, called out for its owner

“Anathema!”

The name barely left his mouth when a young woman with curly dark hair stepped out from an adjacent room behind the counter. She had twinkling brown eyes and a ready smile. Unfortunately, she held the same knowing smirk as the Witch and Crowley sighed internally. They won’t be left alone just yet.

“Right on time!” she clapped her hands excitedly. “Thanks kids. Newt’s made snacks, if any of you want them.”

“That sounds wonderful, but my parents have left me a most nutritious dinner and I’m afraid I must go home soon,” Wensley piped up.

“Guess that’s our cue to leave, too,” Brian sighed, scratching his head and dislodging a fair bit of twigs and leaves. Adam and Pepper nodded glumly.

“You won’t leave just yet, right?” the little girl turned expectantly toward Aziraphale. “We’d like to get to know you better,” she jerked her head to include Crowley without really giving him a glance.

“Oh, I – “ the blonde started, eyes wide, asking Crowley for help. Both of them really didn’t know what they ought to say.

“Oh, they’ll be here a while,” Anathema interjected, confirming Crowley’s earlier trepidation. The answer satisfied the children, who took the apothecary’s word as truth. They said their goodbyes then, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to attend to Anathema’s cryptic response.

“So…” the red-head drawled. “What’s this about us staying?”

“Oh, Agnes asked us to accommodate you.”

“Agnes?”

“The witch in the heart of the Old Woods.”

“Oh, her,” Crowley frowned, feeling the inklings of a headache coming on. “Yeah, great. What does she want with us now?”

“Not sure.” This startled both blonde and red-head.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale sidled closer to the counter separating them and the young woman. “We were told to come find you. We’re rather at a loss as to what we ought to do as well.”

* * *

Aziraphale was confused at their reception at the apothecary. She already felt anxious as they neared the town and felt eyes following them. Pepper and Wensley’s banter, asking her opinion once in a while, had distracted her rising concerns. The Them were wonderful and she felt their absence as the door closed behind them. Unfortunately, what rattled her more was Anathema being as clueless as they were as to why they were sent there.

“I’m sorry. We were told to come find you. We’re rather at a loss as to what we ought to do as well.”

“That’s alright,” Anathema smiled. “Let’s talk about this over snacks.” She lifted a part of the counter to let them through to a small kitchen at the back where a lanky young man with mousy hair setting a table with cups and a pot. Plates of biscuits and sandwiches scattered over the remaining spaces.

“Oh, hello,” the young man greeted them. “The children not coming in?”

“Sorry, honey,” Anathema patted his arm as they approached. “I did tell you.”

“I know,” the man who must be Newt, the mentioned snack-maker, replied with a sigh. “Guess I just got used to making as much as they could stuff their cheeks with with enough left over for us. And with the other guests, I just – “ He looked over at the treat-laden table. “Er.. got carried away.” He smiled sheepishly.

“They all look delicious,” Aziraphale offered, giving the young man a reassuring smile. “And I do have a sweet tooth. I won’t worry if I were you,” she grinned, receiving one back. “I’m Aziraphale, and you must be Newt. Thank you for welcoming us,” she continued, holding a hand out for them to shake before remembering she ought to have curtsied. But the couple took turns to grasp her hand in theirs with a quick but firm grip. She elbowed Crowley and gave him a pointed look, earning her a growl, before he introduced himself as well.

They settled around the table with Newt pouring out tea for them all. Aziraphale closed his eyes as he inhaled the fragrance with a pleased hum. Tea was never for commoners. He would never had tasted it had it been for Alice and their afternoon talks. The initial sip made her break out into a pleased smile. “This taste wonderful,” she exclaimed.

“Why, thank you!” Anathema grinned. “Grew the leaves myself, and the cornflowers, we pick in the wild past the village orchards. I’ll give you a box to bring with you to the old mill.”

Crowley’s head snapped up to glare at her through his fringe of red hair. “What mill?”

“Of, course,” Anathema huffed to herself. “I forgot, sorry. That’s where you’ll stay for the next few weeks, according to Agnes,” she shrugged at Crowley’s raised eyebrows. “I don’t really know what happens after the few weeks are up, but I was told to make the place livable enough for two.”

“It’ my place,” Newt supplied. “Lived with my uncle there for a while. Until I, er, broke the wheels that ran the millstones.” He blushed at the memory. “Don’t really know how, just remembered wanting to help then everything came crashing down. People said it was too old, anyway, and the water had gotten shallower to barely catch the paddles. My uncle left to open a pub instead of fixing her up.” He gestured to the wall to the apothecary’s left. “He seemed happier and he gave me the mill to do with it as I please. Which is nothing, really until Anathema came along.”

“Built myself a garden there while starting up the shop. But now I buy what I can from the locals and wandering merchants. The Duke’s orders can come suddenly and I pride myself by being well-stocked,” she preened, chest puffing just slightly. “We moved in to the apartment above us just a year ago but the mill is still sturdy, and keeps most of the chill away at night. You’ll see it later on. I had the bed ready and cleaned the floors. The small kitchen is useable and…” she narrowed her eyes at them. “The adjacent workshop had recently been fitted with a forge.”

Aziraphale kept her face deadpanned. Agnes knew a lot of things which she had not shared with Anathema, and that little addition had her wondering what on earth she was supposed to make in there. “How odd,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “What would its intended purpose be?” here she could very well show her uncertainty. Surely the village had its own blacksmith and whatever repairs or weapons could have been procured from there. She shook her head. She felt Anathema’s hand cup her own on the table.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Agnes gives away hundreds of puzzle pieces. Some to me, some to you. Until we put them all together could we know what she wanted from us. My family learned the lesson of just following her every little instruction and let said pieces fall as they would,” she smiled shyly at them. “She can be hard to follow sometimes. I have the advantage of being family. Obedience to her almost a part of my blood. It can be jarring to strangers.”

“You can say that again,” Crowley grumbled behind his cup. It cleared the heavy atmosphere immediately.

“I’ll leave you to work it out yourselves but you can always find us here at the shop,” she said cheerfully. “Mind you, it’d be a rough trek in and out the property. It’s grown pretty wild the last few months.”

“I don’t mind a bit of gardening,” the red-head sat back in his chair. “Have a way with greenery, me. I think I can wrangle it back into shape.”

“There’s an idea,” Anathema perked up. “Let’s make a deal. You get my old garden under control and I’ll buy the things you grow from it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley scratched his chin. “Sounds like a plan. I think we’d need the extra coins, anyway. What do you say, angel?”

“We hardly know where Agnes wished for us to go. A little bit of savings wouldn’t hurt while we’re here. Although I could never accept you being the only one working, my dear.” Aziraphale crossed her arms.

“We have enough to start with,” he pointed out. The blonde frowned. She wasn’t planning on simply waiting for Crowley to be done with his chores for the day, tempting as it may have sounded. But she never wanted to be dependent on anyone. Not out of stubbornness, but mere fairness. She said so to her companion.

“I’m not fragile and I very much want to be useful,” the blonde countered. Anathema cleared her throat trying to cut off the argument.

“She’s right,” she said to Crowley with as much force as she could. “It sounds like she’s a workaholic and the more you keep her from moving about, the more you’d find yourselves growing apart. “Not good for couples, that.”

Aziraphale felt her cheeks pink and she heard Crowley sputtering beside her. She almost denied it all before remembering that they were supposed to be coming off as married, or at the very least, _together_. So far, it seemed to have worked.

Newt reached over to pat Crowley’s back. “Guess we’re in the same boat, mate,” he grinned. The red-head brushed him off with a weak chuckle.

“Nah, I think you got it worse,” he cocked his head in Anathema’s direction. The woman rolled her eyes at him before turning to Aziraphale.

“Any ideas where we can get you a job?” she asked.

“I can bake,” the blonde replied. Aziraphale felt that the forge was for a project that needed to be done away from prying eyes. She couldn’t very well hide herself by the forge all day and night. People might wonder what she was dong in there. Being seen employed would dispel most of the suspicions.

“Oh!” Newt slapped his forehead. “You can come work at the tavern. My uncle opens right before lunch. You can help make pies and other stuff. Mrs. Young, the cook and Adam’s mum, does what she can but has been complaining at the number of customers coming in specially nearing the fall harvest festival. A lot of merchants come by,” he said by explanation. “I’ll get a word in for you if you’d like.”

“That would be awfully helpful, thank you,” Aziraphale beamed at him. The rest of the afternoon had her talking about her baking masterpieces and some failed attempts, exchanging notes with Newt while Crowley and Anathema parried plant care techniques and herb properties. It was like slipping into their supposed persona and excelling at it. Somehow, though, it felt more as if they were simply living a life they already had but never really allowed to exist.

By the time Newt and Anathema led them to the mill at the edge of the village in the fading light, they were eager to get a good night’s sleep. They were given a perfunctory tour before being led into the bedroom. The young woman crossed the room to an old trunk and took from it a small, familiar-looking chest.

“Agnes also wanted me to give this to you.” As Aziraphale touched the wood, all her exhaustion faded away instantly, replaced by unease. “She said the thing inside is for the both of you,” she shrugged at the helpless looks between the red-head and the blonde. “Told you. Puzzle pieces. Good luck.”

Aziraphale and Crowley followed them back to the door to say their goodbyes then tiptoed back to open the chest. She’d been curious about what was inside but knew better than to ask Agnes. Now, though, she wanted to throw the thing away without even a second glance.

“Better get it over with, angel,” she felt Crowley’s warm hand on her shoulder. A simple touch, a support, a promise that they were going to face whatever was inside the chest, together.

Aziraphale unclasped the lock and lifted the lid. Inside were broken pieces of a crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and some angst and blood, definitely more blood.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! This does have an ending, we're probably three-quarters in.


	21. A Night's Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadow comes to visit.
> 
> But really this chapter was simple self-indulgence on my part. And I promised plot, but I didn't want to go too fast. Haha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this bit drafted days before. But I got dumped with work-related e-mails, and I just want a distraction, to do something that won't prickle my skin.
> 
> This is just awkwardness and fluff.

The remaining light that filtered through the bedroom windows glinted off the golden spikes and silver arches of the dismantled crown. It didn’t so much as look old, but felt it. There were lingering traces of magic on the metal, sparking at the splintered edges, cracks and breaks.

“I think I know what to do in the make-shift smithy now,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley noticed the lowered tone and sudden change in her way of speaking. The idea of having to work with metal again had the blonde turning back into Ash, the blacksmith. There was too much pain in that memory. He held his hands out for the offending headdress and hid it back in its box seconds after it was passed to him.

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” he said firmly. “I don’t about you but I’m itching for a proper night’s sleep. Preferably not on damp earth, the floor or stone.”

He turned to their bags by the door and took out his box of herbs, taking stock of what was left. “Might have to visit Anathema again,” he grumbled. “Or maybe I can find some in that jungle of hers. Anyway, I have enough to make something for both your wound and _mine_ ,” he shook his head in exasperation at Beel and her penchant to making his life worse. “The creek runs just outside the kitchen, if you need more water. Looked fairly clear to me. Wounds heal faster when regularly cleaned and dressed, I found.” He got only silence for his rambling. Frowning he turned back to Aziraphale and found her staring at the bed.

“Hey,” he called out. It got her attention. He could make out reddened cheeks and alarmed looks. “Are you alright?”

“Uhm…” she glanced from the bed to him, then to the floor in quick succession. He didn’t understand until he finally noticed the bed. There was only one. He gulped. He couldn't bring himself to think they'd actually be sleeping together. Well, not sleeping together, just well, SLEEPING together, or next to each other, whatever. Sharing the same warmth, enveloped in softness. He felt his face redden. His mind was spiraling into dangerous waters. He needed to backtrack quickly. It was the first night they would spend together without the fear of other people trying to take them hostage or cutting their heads off.

"Uh, I can sleep on the floor if you'd feel uncomfortable. I'm sure there are extra sheets somewhere. I won't mind," he scratched the back of his head.

“No, it's fine,” Aziraphale finally gasped out. She cleared her throat and repeated her answer with a little more conviction. She was trying to act unaffected although her blush wasn't helping at all. "You just said you were tired of sleeping on floors. And we both need the comfort.” She patted her side unconsciously. “But I do believe I’d give myself a long soak in the creek, as you suggested, to wash off the blood I didn’t get last night,” she quickly searched her pack for a change of clothes and more bandages.

“Alright then,” Crowley said gruffly at Aziraphale’s retreating back. He scanned the room again and took a deep breath. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Soft trickles accompanied muffled sloshes as waters from somewhere within the Southern Ridges slid down their worn paths to converge and form the creek Aziraphale found herself walking in, going against the current. Flat stones littered the water’s edge and she was in no danger. The flow was steady but gentle against her calves. She’d taken her corset, chemise and dress off and had but her bloodstained hose and shirt on. Form-fitting clothing were better when playing in water, dresses and the like tend to gather far too much liquid and would easily weigh her down. She’d gone farther from the mill than was perhaps necessary. But she needed something to distract her.

The rushing waters formed tresses curving around the smooth stones beneath and at its sides. She could see the bottom and the shadows beneath, swirls dancing and twisting with orange sunbeams. He could imagine how moonlight would kiss the surface and then float towards the bottom where it would coat the pebbles below in silver undulating lights.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the late summer smells. There was a bite of coolness riding it, bringing in the coming autumn. The waters ran at the same temperature but it was not uncomfortable.

_How long were they to stay?_ she wondered. She would like to be able to come back to this little spot without worries and properly enjoy the babbling ribbons of refreshing water lapping at her feet. She looked back the way she came and saw only foliage, muted greens blocking the mill. But she knew she wouldn’t get lost. The creek would lead her back. The trees stood tall on either side and she felt well-sheltered beneath them, although there was a definite break at the center of the creek where blue skies peeked in, wisps of pink-tinged clouds skittered across.

She had been far too lost in the colors that she had very little time to react to the sounds of running feet behind her. She heard the splash and then felt the weight of another body crash into her. She struck her hands out to avoid knocking her head on the rocks, but the momentum had propelled her towards the deeper part of the creek. She heard yelps and barks moments before the sounds were dampened as she sank into the cool waves.

She bottled her rising panic and concentrated on keeping her mouth closed. She let herself sink, scanning the waters for her attacker. Whoever it was, though, were left in the shallows but creating quite the ruckus. She heard their flailing and splashing even when underwater. She waited a few more seconds and soon felt the water buoy her back up to the surface instead of pull her to the bottom. She rode the floating sensation before resurfacing and taking in much needed air. But her breath had promptly left her when she saw the spectacle by the bank.

The body that slammed into her was Crowley’s. His back was to her but he was shouting her name repeatedly in between bouts of cursing as he stumbled away from a blurry grey mass that leapt out at him.

“Shadow!” she squealed with delight, finally recognizing the wolf despite its furs clinging wetly to its body.

The canine turned its head mid-flight. Crowley wasn’t fast enough, waterlogged legs slowed him down, and the wolf hit him square in the chest. They both toppled into the water and Aziraphale swam the short distance towards them.

The wolf was paddling merrily around her, coming in to give her wet kisses. Although, seeing as they were already in the water, even the nuzzles would be called wet as well. A sputtering, growling and decidedly soaked red-head called her attention away from the wolf. She saw him flounder back to the shallows and perch on one of the rocks.

“Happy now? You ungrateful mutt!” he huffed. Shadow didn’t even turn its head. Aziraphale swam closer, dragging the ‘mutt’ with her.

“Care to tell me what happened, dear?” she smiled at him.

Crowley scowled at her. “Found the thing outside the mill, sniffing about. It found your clothes but no you,” he shot her an accusing stare and she could only look back sheepishly, knowing he would have been worried as well if he couldn’t find her. “Anyway, growled at me, probably asking where you were. I certainly didn’t know and you weren’t gone too long. So, I told it to just wait. Thing snapped at my heels! Oi, don’t you giggle at that!” he cried indignantly because Aziraphale was vibrating on her own rock, wet wolf settled on her lap. “Saw you finally but your spoiled brat wouldn’t let me go…” his voice lost its sharpness as he remembered their collision. “Hold on, you’re fine, right? You didn’t hit anything?” he leaned over to check but she quickly put her hands up to his upper arms to still him.

“I’m fine,” she assured him, giving him a squeeze. She found her eyes darting to her hands and the muscles she felt there. His shirt was dark but it didn’t save her from the visuals of clingy cloth on lean limbs and torso. She had seen her fair share of semi-naked men, having pretended who she was not, and the company she was forced to keep (stable hands and attendants during Gabriel’s travels). She had even been obligated to sit around the same campfire as them and endured their endless ribbing of her supposed celibacy and the gauche retelling of their own exploits. It had cemented Ash’s strangeness but she had been unaffected then, and her stoic demeanor had left them unsatisfied and soon left her alone.

She felt none of their excitement at sharing bodies, perhaps because she felt their glee as being far too impersonal compared to the intimacy she imagined should have been present in the act. She distanced herself, or rather the others willingly kept her at arm’s length, never really wishing to form any kind of relationship. Less complication, she believed. Or perhaps it was only because she hadn’t found any, she was willing to share a relationship with that she acted as she did. But then she could feel her fingertips tingling at the warmth of the man she had met barely three days before. She saw the sharp lines of his ribs and hips and looked quickly away. Thankfully Crowley appeared to have not noticed, busy as he was hissing at Shadow still on her lap. He shifted position then flinched, hands flying to his most recent wound.

“Blasted wolf had me running, probably opened it up,” he glanced back at her, eyes widening, mouth open, forming a word that came out as “nguhhh.” He recovered quickly, though, and shot straight up, splashing towards the bank. “Need to get this taken care of,” he threw over his shoulder. I’ll leave your share of the poultice by your clothes and wait for you back at the mill, yeah?” he didn’t let her finish and briskly strode back towards their temporary home.

“Odd,” she remarked, palms suddenly cold, missing the heat that teased the skin there. Shadow stood to follow him, giving her a grin, a sign that she knew meant Crowley’s ire. She can’t exactly control the wolf so she let it leave. She supposed she ought to get on with her bath, and as she gripped her shirt to free her itching skin underneath, she suddenly noticed her own clothing – white shirt, definitely wet, indubitably see-through. She threw back herself into the water, holding her breath as long as she could beneath the surface, trying to cool her burning face.

It was dark when she finally waded back towards the mill, and set herself to rights. The salve Crowley promised was where it should be. Shadow was waiting for her by the kitchen fire which was burning slowly, warming the little room. The wolf turned towards her but kept its place. Coming closer, she found a letter beneath its paw, bite marks visible. It was from Agnes, advising her to trust Anathema’s counsel while there. Aziraphale let out a breath. At least she now knew it was alright to confide with the young woman. All the secrecy had her on edge.

* * *

Crowley walked stiffly but purposefully towards the mill. He needed to get himself together before Aziraphale came back. He was thankful the wolf had been between them and had shielded most of her body from his eyes. He shivered as the image of the blonde, from minutes before, danced into his mind. He groaned and pinched himself. He wondered if he’d make it ‘til morning.

He cleaned and took care of himself as best he could. He wanted to rush into bed to sleep off the exhaustion of the present day and the fear of their future. He lit the fire in the kitchen to give Aziraphale light and warmth when she comes back. The wolf padded and took his place by the fire to await the blonde. He noticed it bring in a piece of paper and tucked it beneath its paws. He spared no mind to it. It was far too close to the canine’s teeth. He was sure it was for Aziraphale anyway. The blasted animal grinned at him, an obvious challenge. He would have given in, had it not for the possible embarrassment of his angel finding him defeated.

He heard the bedroom door creek open as he sprawled on the bed trying to bury his face into the mattress. He stilled and feigned sleep. The less they talked, the less awkward topics would come up. He heard her tiptoe to the chest the crown was hidden in. There was the shuffling of metal on wood and the scrape of metal against metal. He kept his eyes shut, regretting having turned his head towards the wall effectively limiting his view of everything else in the room. He sprang to his feet when a hiss reached his ears.

“What happened?” he ran to the blonde’s side forgetting that he ought not to have been reacting as actively as he should.

“Sorry, i-it’s nothing,” she stammered, lowering the candle she brought in. “Did I wake you?” she closed the lid of the chest and moved closer, guilt in her voice.

“I, uh, just thought I heard you hiss in pain,” he noticed she hid her hand behind her.

“I’m not!” she squeaked, then cleared her throat. “I’m not – in pain, that is. Perfectly tickety-boo,” she said a little more steadily though not convincingly. Crowley crossed his arms and leaned towards her. She took a step back in her agitation and toppled the candle over, wick snuffing itself in the process.

They were plunged into darkness but Crowley could still see the blonde and her bewildered face.

“Oh, bother,” she huffed and the red-head couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Serves you right for lying to me,” he watched her looking down in embarrassment and waited for her reply.

“Fine,” she finally said. “My hand drew too near one of the broken spikes,” Crowley reached for her hands to search for blood. “I didn’t get cut,” she said softly. He saw how wide her eyes had become, staring at their hands. Crowley wondered if he had better let them go, but the blonde curled her fingers to close over his and gave him a squeeze. “It was just the magic. Felt like lightning ran through me. I didn’t know it was that strong. I think I should ask Anathema how best to handle the thing.”

“Told you to leave it for tomorrow,” he growled, tightening his hold on her hands.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He only clucked. He wondered how someone so skilled could be quite a klutz. But grimaced at himself for being incompetent in shielding her even from such a small scare. She’s fought every one of his battles with him since the day they met and took too many blows that was supposed to have been his alone. He needed to take better care of her, he chastised himself. Reluctant to leave her side again, he pulled her towards the bed and sat her down.

“Now, are you going to listen to me and rest?” he snapped. They both flinched at the tone. He wanted to be mad at himself not her, he felt like a mess. He didn’t trust his voice to convey an apology, so he simply brought her hands up to his lips, kissing the back of each. It felt like a plea, for what he couldn’t properly say.

A small gasp escaped her lips and her grip tightened. But when she spoke, her voice was steady. “Yes, we’ll sleep now,” she said gently, then her tone turned teasing. “Perhaps you've be less grumpy in the morning.”

"Don't count on it, angel," his mouth curled at the corners despite trying to not let it. They let go of each other then settled into the bed. He turned towards her, taking advantage of his sight to study her face in the safety of the dark room.

It felt warmer with a body next to his own and he yawned, finally feeling sleep start to claim him. He managed a mumbled “goodnight” and felt, rather than hear, the reply ghosting over his cheeks before his consciousness left him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, got roped into the "there is only one bed" trope. But they get over it quickly. They have far too much problems to properly act on their growing attraction to each other.
> 
> ...and yes, I do have a fascination with water. :D


	22. Domestic Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A touch of angst.

Crowley woke in the early hours of the morning, disoriented. It took him a few seconds to remember where he was and why he was there. A quick look outside the window told him he was better off still sleeping. He wriggled further under the blankets and tried to relax, but couldn’t. He felt something was wrong but couldn’t pin down what it was. The bed was too cold to get his thoughts in order. He groaned and stretched himself, arms and legs reaching for the corners of the mattress.

He had fully splayed his body out when his brain finally registered what the problem was. He was alone on the bed. And not just that. He felt no lingering warmth where Aziraphale should have been. He was certain she was there when he closed his eyes to sleep. Maybe it was a dream? A little too much longing the night before and persisting into his unconsciousness.

He shook his head and crawled from underneath the covers, dressed for the day and pulled on his coat. The cool morning air seeping far too easily into his bones. He checked the front door. It was still locked from the inside. Had the blonde gone out, she would have had to unlatch it. He trundled towards the kitchen at the back of the mill and the only other door out. He saw firelight bathing the floor and tiptoed towards it. There was definite activity within the little room but the sounds could have barely reached past the threshold. Coming closer, he heard Aziraphale’s soft voice. She was talking to the wolf.

“It was nice of Anathema and Newt to leave us all these supplies, don’t you think so Shadow?” he heard her prattle on. “I’ll go straight to town this morning when the sun is high enough and give them a loaf or two. I know they’d have some still, the biscuits were delicious, but since we’ll be needing something for breakfast, best make use of the oven to conquer two errands in one, don’t you think?” Crowley heard the soft thump of dough on the wooden table, and surmised his angel was kneading.

He took a quick peak and found her still in her bedclothes, with a shawl hanging loosely from her shoulders. Her hair, out of its braid was tied messily into a half-bun. Her sleeves were rolled up high and arms were covered in flour. There were candles on the table, the oven behind her was flaming, being prepped for the rolls of dough. The kitchen fire was low but crackling, a kettle hanging over the blaze.

The combined light – hues of yellow, red and orange – clung to her. It made her features softer, blurring her pale skin and hair. It was as if she had stepped out from some unknown realm, materializing from the glow of the flames, to cast her spell – an enchantress come to bless him. His heart did not soar, far from it. It felt constricted. The apparition in front of him was too perfect to behold. He was sure that with one swipe of his hand, the angel shall melt into the air.

This was when he knew he was in love with her. It wasn’t of how she appeared to him, it was the certain fear of losing her. He remembered grieving for his mother that day her mortal soul was released. And he cowered at the thought that he’d feel the same when the angel leaves. He gritted his teeth at the realization that it was indeed a question of when, rather than if. She held far too much potential in her hands to be cooped up in some fairy tale cottage with him for the rest of her days.

A weighty bout of loneliness crashed into him then. He must have made a noise as both wolf and angel turned towards his direction. Their eyes locked and he quickly averted her gaze, not knowing what emotion she’d read from there.

“Crowley,” she greeted him, dropping the dough she was working on and taking a step towards him. And oh, how her voice cradled his name, it was a welcome, a plea and a promise all at the same time. Just that, and he felt renewed, his already damned soul feeling lighter. But he was a wretched man. A demon, who grappled with the souls of his victims to cast them down to hell. And here the angel was smiling at him, holding out a hand. Flour dust swirling behind her, and for a moment he saw wings. She cannot be his. He wasn’t worthy.

“Are you alright, my dear?” a touch concerned at his slouch and wearied face.

“Uh, yeah, just uhm cold, I think,” he managed to reply.

“Oh my, come,” she nudged Shadow to free a space by the fire and sat him down on a stool. Had he been in a better mood, he’d have felt victorious at being held above the blonde’s beloved pet.

“The water would boil soon. Then I’ll make tea, that’ll warm you up. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re, uh, pretty early,” he said thickly, ignoring the pats on his shoulder and its soothing effects.

“Yes, did I disturb you when I got up? Forgive, I’m an early riser. And it’s been days since I had work, really. I’m not used to it. I thought I’d go for a walk to settle my nerves but then I saw your clothes by the bed and though it was high time to do the laundry, I hope you don’t mind. We just need to wait for the sun to hang them out. Then I found that the kitchen is fully stocked, would you believe it? So, I thought I’d make something instead. What say you of freshly baked bread, my dear?”

Crowley had stayed silent during her monologue, barely registering her words. The night before had been the most restful he’d had so far. It had been nice to share the bed but he hadn’t thought to wonder if the closeness had actually made her uncomfortable. _Selfish_ , he hissed to himself. She had wanted to work the night before as well, and she rose far too early. Was Aziraphale really that nervous laying with him? Was he that detestable even after all they’d been through together? He was the plague she was supposed to run away from, stupid, needy him.

He was far too gone into his own head that the touch on his cheeks startled him. Aziraphale was kneeling in front of him, clasping his face in between her palms. She gave him a small smile, but he could see her blue eyes brimming with concern. “Are you with me, my dear?”

He could only nod. It was taking all his concentration not to pull her closer. Her hands effectively warming him where the fire had failed. “I’ve been calling you for a while now, please tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” he sighed. “Thought you finally grew tired of me and left,” his mouth continued. He wasn’t even aware he said them until he heard her chuckle.

“I don’t think I’d tire of you that quickly,” she said gently, he could hear the smile in her voice. “And although we haven’t been acquainted enough to know everything about each other, don’t you think our share of experiences enough to compensate for that?”

ere, she stood up and handed him a mug of something hot. I’ll just go put the loaves in the oven to bake.

No, let me at least do that for you. She looked at him for a while and nodded.

“Have you baked before?”

“Not really, but we’re just putting them in, right?

She supervised as Crowley raked the burned wood out of the oven and gave it a good mop, quickly backing away from the steam. As they waited for the brad to bake, the sun peeked out from the horizon slowly glazing their surroundings with its light. The mountains were to the west and their sunrise was uninterrupted, banishing the gloom within the little kitchen and Crowley’s mind.

They walked back to Anathema’s after a quick breakfast where Newt told her that Mrs. Young would greatly appreciate her help. She may start that very day if she’d like.

“That’s wonderful news,” she clapped. “My hands have been restless for a while.”

“Speaking of hands,” Anathema hummed. “I’ve been slipped this,” she passed over a box lifting the lid to show bars of gold and silver. “For your project,” she clarified. “They told me should you need anymore, pass the message on to me.”

“New puzzle piece?” Aziraphale gave Anathema a questioning look.

“Apparently Agnes mentioned to someone else you’d need supplies. My part is to give you tools you’d need, though I’m not certain what they should be yet. I think it best we talk about it back at the mill,” she gave her a knowing look.

“Then I’d better get back then, and start hacking away,” Crowley mumbled. “didn’t know how I missed the briars last night. You’d think there’d be a dragon in there somewhere ready to jump out. I’ll come back tonight to pick you up?” He wasn’t enthusiastic on putting distance between the blonde and himself, but he knew he had to keep himself busy. He was also getting restless. Without a bow to pluck, gardening was the next best thing. He tried to rein in the longing tone in his voice but knew he failed when he saw Anathema grin from behind his angel.

* * *

Deirdre Young, Aziraphale found, was the self-appointed manager of the inn. Unlike Mr. Shadwell, Newt’s uncle, she kept a cool head but was earnestly friendly like her son, with the same determined glint their eyes when they knew exactly what needed to be done and how. Shadwell barely talked, simply grunted at her in acknowledgement and set off down the cellar to tend to his alcohol.

She followed Mrs. Young to the kitchen to give her a tour before they started cooking. The space was big enough for both of them to bustle about comfortably. There was a fireplace sporting spits, where the occasional meat rested but was heating a pot of soup, already bubbling, above its fire. The ovens were beside it, ready to be cleaned and firewood nearby. Prepped meats and peeled vegetables peeled were stationed on the table in the center of the room, herbs and cured meats hung overhead.

“Newt tells me you bake,” Mrs. Young starts after showing her the well-stocked pantry. “I can only really do loaves, not much for all the other ones. We get a few from the bakery but the baker's been recruited by the Duke this season and the traders are starting to trickle in. And soon I won’t be able to keep up with their orders. You’re a god-send, I can tell you that.”

“Oh, I can’t do all,” Aziraphale said blushing. “But I do love making pies, biscuits, flatbread, cake...” Aziraphale hummed at her list. It had been a while. She wasn't a full-fledged baker but her mother was a very patient teacher and she’d experimented with flavours on her off days, so she was fairly confident. She made herself a small oven back at Gabriel's keep and there were very few mis bakes. “I still remember my mother's recipes.” She clung to those recipes like a lifeline, every flaky crust or fluffy bread a reminder of those blissful days of her youth.

“Can you make scones?” Mrs. Young hummed, eyes glazing over. “Old Mrs. Smith, the baker's mother made them dripping with honey. She passed away a long time ago and her son was too grieved to try making them himself. I had one when I was a child and still dream of them sometimes.”

“I’ll try my best, Mrs. Young,” she said, already taking a nearby apron and readying herself for battle.

“Please call me Deirdre,” she said good-naturedly. “I'll leave you to yourself for a bit then,” the woman called over her shoulder as she walked back to man the inn's front.

Aziraphale set to work, memorizing the pantry and the where all the kitchen equipment were at. She felt at ease. And was too absorbed with her work that Deirdre had to her flour covered hands to get her attention. The older woman smiled at her white-streaked face but admired the younger girl's twinkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks.

True to her promise, Aziraphale prepared a few dozen scones along with some meat pies. She strode from one oven to the other, checking the goodies within. As she set the scones to rest by the window, in came Adam with Brian at his heels. Both boys stopped to take in the sight of the plump morsels. But before they could pounce on them, Deirdre blocked their path.

“You’ll have them to eat along with your father, but not before that,” she said sternly and had the boys back out the kitchen away from temptation. She turned to Aziraphale to ask, “Will you be sending a bundle off to your husband as well?”

The blonde gave her a few blinks before she remembered that she was, in fact, supposed to have a husband. One with a nice tuft of flaming red hair, sinuous hips and tinkling laugh. A husband who had eagerly promised to come back for her even while Anathema and Newt would be coming over with her, perfectly safe.The thought made her stomach flip and her cheeks redden.

“It’s alright, Newt told me. And I told Mr. Shadwell. He usually let us make our own lunch so long as we list them down for him to take away from our wages by the end of the week, although I do the books,” she explained with a wink. “I don’t really understand how the man ran the business before I came along. Any who, it’s easier to make them here than earlier in the day. That way they stay fresh. Adam loves the running about. His father works in the fields. We could also have him take a basket to your partner if you’d like.”

Aziraphale glanced at the freshly baked pies and had herself been wishing to have Crowley try them but unsure how to run to the mill and back without her new employer grumbling at her. “If it won’t be any trouble,” she said shyly.

“Come here and help then,” Deirdre beckoned her. When they finished, they called back Adam and Brian. Take these to your fathers, she handed them a large.

Aziraphale stepped forward to offer her own little basket. Adam grinned. “I get to deliver to Mr. Crowley, then?” he said, even before she managed to open her mouth. “It’s been a while since we got into the Old Mill.”

The blonde chuckled and set her offerings atop the bigger basket so both boys could carry the lunches between them. “Someone’s been snooping,” she wrinkled her nose at him, which made the boy laugh. “Just don’t scare him like before.”

“We won’t,” Brian said solemnly, but she heard them snicker as they rushed out the door.

* * *

The garden was a mess of holes, weeds and bracken. Crowley had been hacking away at the thick shrubs and had uprooted as much weeds as he could. What had transpired that morning was easily forgotten as he felt the sweat trickle down his body beneath his clothes. He’d been very productive, which is more than what he could say for his companion. It did nothing but dig holes. A lot of holes.

He had felt rather lonely when he came back, cradling the box of ‘supplies’ Aziraphale would need, but his glum countenance didn’t last long. As soon as he stepped foot into Anathema’s garden, he was showered with dirt from over eager paws. The wolf had made himself a playpen beside the herbs. He’d have been more furious but he had to admit that at least he needn’t till the soil to remake the plant beds. Shadow had already done it for him, albeit more uneven than he would have liked. He took it as a problem for another day and started whacking back the towering walls of thorns.

The sun was high when he sauntered back into the mill to take a drink and contemplate among the morning’s bread he would have for his lunch. A loud knock at the door had him frowning. But was surprised as Adam came in holding out a cloth covered basket.

“What’s this then?” he took the basket gingerly, suspicious of the boy.

“It’s from your missus Mr. Crowley,” Adam grins. “Special delivery.”

The word ‘missus’ bounced around his head and Aziraphale’s face jumped to the forefront. Lips resting into a sweet smile. His own curl up in response. He lifted the cloth to find a pie, some fruit and two scones glistening with honey. They felt warm, just barely lifted from the oven. The smell made his mouth water, reminding his body further that he needed to eat something after the labors of the morning.

“She gave you two, that’s unfair.” Crowley snapped back to attention as Adam loomed over his lunch. He couldn’t help but laugh at the boy’s pout.

“Oi, this is mine,” he teased. Aziraphale made him lunch and his exhaustion was slowly melting away.

“Maybe I could sneak back. They’re probably by the window still,” the kid mused aloud. Shoulders settling into a determined stance.

“Won’t your mum see you?” He knew he ought to discourage the child from doing petty theft, but he remembers smuggling biscuits when he wasn’t allowed. A necessary childhood experience, that.

“Not if I’m fast enough,” Adam smirked and ran back towards the road. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Crowley!”

The red-head took his vittles back to the kitchen and wondered if everyday would be like that. Fresh pies cradled in cloth. Perhaps they could prepare a hearty meal together, there in their temporary home. Crowley stopped his own thoughts. They were playing house, that was the sad truth. But every bit of his existence wailed that it had to be real. He was willing to pretend it was. Pretend that someone cared for him and that he wasn’t repulsive enough a character to accept that care in return - for what little time they are allowed together. He can manage it, can't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who am I kidding? I needed the fluff after being told to make a research proposal lickety-split.
> 
> I'm gearing myself for a mental breakdown soon. Ha!
> 
> Enjoy my little offering.
> 
> P.S. I've been nodding as I typed this. Feel free to comb through it should you like.


	23. The Bubble Pops

Aziraphale had just finished clearing the kitchen when Deirdre told her she could go. She found Crowley lounging outside with his freckles standing out from his sun-kissed skin. She was mesmerized and had reached her hand out to trace them on his face before she even realized. His eyes widened at the touch but didn't move away. He leaned to nuzzle her palm, and she blushed. She looked at her hand, surprised at her own boldness. Perhaps it was because Deirdre had been asking her about her _husband_ all afternoon, that she was emboldened to try acting more like a wife. It was all a farce, she reminded herself and quickly brought her hand down but the damage was done. Crowley gave her a cheeky grin and a whispered, "Did you miss me?" Her cheeks darkened further and no amount of pouting on her end wiped the red-head’s smirk away until they reached the apothecary next door.

Newt and Anathema were raking through leaves, roots and flowers all over the counter. Faint smells of fresh mint and ginger wafted towards them. Shadow was dozing at one corner, patches of brown matted into its grey fur. Aziraphale turned towards the red-head with a questioning frown.

“Thing dug up more roots than it should have,” he replied. “Tried giving it a bath but couldn’t really get ahold of it. You should have seen me an hour ago. Your pet wasn’t content until I was caked in as much dirt as it was.” He shook his head but gave an amused snort. It was clear he had as much fun digging in the ground as the wolf had been.

“Aziraphale,” Newt called as he stacked filled boxes by the counter. “Do you have more of that sweet bread you made at lunch? Anathema and I fought over that one I bought,” he laughed at the pout the brunette shot his way.

“Sorry dear, Mrs. Tyler bought the last three right before tea time. I would have saved them for you If I’d had known. But Deirdre told me it was for the best since she didn't hound her over the state of the tables for once.” Deirdre had been introducing her to the tavern’s patrons. The older woman cued her in on how the Tylers would harp on how best to become model citizens, including how to run a shop. “Although you might have gotten some if the Them hadn’t stolen a tray away. Deirdre could only look on as they raced back into the direction of the woods.” She didn’t see Crowley bow his head guiltily.

“Weren't they delicious?” Adam, as if summoned, stormed in. His hair was wind-swept, grin in place. “Can you make more?”

“Only if you won’t steal them anymore,” the blonde huffed at him. She wasn’t really mad, but she needed to make sure future wares would be safe.

“Alright, I promise,” he shrugged. “I’ll tell the others to promise, too. Mum told their parents and we can’t play in the woods for a week now. But they wanted to know if you can make sweet pies? Like with blackberries or blueberries? Me and Brian, and Wensley and Pepper can go pick some! We can go tomorrow!”

“Didn’t you just say you weren’t allowed to go into the woods?” Anathema interrupted as she swept the counter clean. “You really should think about the consequences of your actions.”

“I can go with them,” Crowley volunteered. “Keep them away from trouble.” Adam beamed, he answered with a wink.

“Only if your mother approves,” Aziraphale sighs.

“I’ll ask her right away!” And with that he was off, leaving the adults to talk among themselves.

Newt volunteered to make dinner and Crowley had gone out for more firewood. Leaving Aziraphale and Anathema in the make-shift smithy looking over the broken crown. The blonde ignored the inquisitive stares she’d been given as she recounted her experience with metalwork and the need for its present application. Anathema was taken aback at the strength of the magic contained within.

“So, you’re to fix this?” she scratched her head.

“I believe so,” said the blonde. “I accidentally touched the broken edges and thought I would be discorporated on the spot. But I’m sure it would be an easy fix. Though, I’m not sure why your contact thought we’d be needing so much gold and silver. The supplies are enough to make a whole crown on their own.”

“To be fair when I set this place up, I thought Agnes wanted a secret weapons base,” Anathema chuckled. “I can enchant a set of leather gloves for you to use for extra protection, although how you weren’t burned alive with that much raw energy was surprising to say the least, but Agnes did choose you. I’m not sure how you’re going to go about it, but I hope you have all the things you’d need. I took them from the village blacksmith just after the duke recruited them to help with the fortifications on this side of the Ridge.”

“Somehow I’m not convinced that the repair would be easy,” the blonde sighed. “There’s something about this whole affair that’s making my scalp itch.”

“That’s Agnes for you,” Anathema laughed. “You’ll get used to her whole ineffable mind-games. Now come on, I can smell Newt’s cooking.” They took the chest and the precious metals back to the bedroom before meeting with the men at the kitchen.

Dinner was a lovely affair, at least for Aziraphale. She had been too used to eating alone that she simply took in the scene before her – Anathema and Crowley were arguing about something or other with the gardens while Newt was sneaking pieces of meat and bone to Shadow, who had happily stationed its head on the lanky man’s knee. She felt happiness start bubbling in her chest but tamped it down. Whenever she acknowledged that feeling, the fates would throw out dire consequences, usually with blood and fire.

Anathema and Newt left in the early evening light, Shadow trotting behind them. The wolf had apparently been acting as messenger between the witch and the brunette and she needed to ask for further guidance for their mysterious task.

* * *

Crowley sighed as he fell unto the mattress with the grace of a felled log. Aziraphale following to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed.

“Rough day, dear?” she surmised as he stretched. He could hear his joints let out a few popping noises. 

“Backbreaking work, gardening. But I’m not really complaining, just not used to it yet. I'll get the hang of it." He squirmed to give her more room as she slipped beside him with a quiet sigh. He sidled a little closer towards her. He held his breath but she did not move away. A huge improvement compared to the previous night’s hesitation.

“I’m glad you changed your profession,” he turned towards her, angling his body nearer. He wondered how close he could get. He wasn't being called for it yet but he would retreat as soon as she says so. Hope had bloomed in his heart that afternoon when she initiated intimacy when no one was around to see. It had felt like a gift, and he would cherish that moment of being held sweetly.

“Hmm?” She turned face him as well, the mattress dipping as their combined weight brought them close to pool in the middle of the mattress.

“Those scones were delicious. Didn't get to tell you.” He meant to tease her, but his voice came out a little too softly that spoke of his genuine admiration. He placed his hands between them resolutely keeping them away from her hips. He felt his fingers twitching, aching to touch.

She giggled, and the sound took his breath away. “Thank you. It's been a while since I made them. I'm glad they came out alright. I-I'm glad you liked them,” she burrowed her face in the sheets but he swore she was blushing.

“Make more of those and I'll be the envy of the town by the end of the week,” he smirked.

“How so?” the blonde peeked from under the covers.

“I can brag that my wife's the best baker around,” he said proudly. The blonde stiffened and Crowley panicked. Did he go too fast? He was getting ahead of himself. But he also didn’t want to take the statement back. He wanted it to be true and renouncing it felt like a rejection – his, not so much as hers. He curled back, waiting. “I mean, your meat pies were good, too. But even gorging on three scones wasn’t enough. I’ve never been very appreciative of food, but you’ve got a good chance of padding meat on me yet.” He knew he was babbling but he needed to bury his previous comments.

“Well,” she said when he stopped for a breath. “At least I have something to recommend me as your wife.”

“What does that mean?” he frowned.

“Well, I'm not really a some would call ‘a looker,’ am I?” she sighed as she stared up at the rafters. “Rather let myself go those last few years as Ash.”

“You know that's not true,” he growled, surprising them both. “I thought you were beautiful even as a man.” Crowley shut his mouth hurriedly. He’s making things more awkward. What was it with the darkness that made him dangerously honest? He scowled, mimicking her by glaring at the ceiling.

“Tha-That’s nice of you to say,” she stuttered, after a lengthy silence. He wanted to say he wasn’t nice. It was just the truth. He’s been captivated with her from the start. He’s given her his heart from the moment their eyes locked, without him even knowing. His existence had no real purpose until she barged into his life, dagger in hand like an avenging cherub.

“Sorry, I-I’m not good with accepting compliments, unless they’re about the things I made,” her voice sounded so small even with them being inches apart. “Like the weapons or tools, or the scones…”

She suddenly sat upright startling the red-head. “Crowley…” she starts, scooting closer and placing a firm hand on his shoulder, effectively pinning him on the bed. His brain sputters to make sense of the situation. There had been an angel beside him, meek and shy, now the same angel was hovering above him with a smirk. “I only sent you _two_ scones for lunch. May I ask where the third came from?” she teased.

“Er, I’d say you miscounted,” he gulped. “Or I did,” he couldn’t form the right words to lie effectively, he was distracted by bright blue eyes that even the night couldn’t dampen.

“ _Husband_ ,” and oh that wasn’t fair at all. Crowley could feel his defenses, flimsy excuses as they were, crashing. Aziraphale wasn’t put off by his calling her 'wife', and she was even purring 'husband' back at him. He could feel hope bloom inside him. Perhaps all was not lost and she might choose him still. “Were you an accomplice to the disappearance of a whole tray of honey-glazed scones, by any chance?”

“That’s a secret I’ll take to my grave, angel,” he gasped out. The blonde giggled and finally (but sadly) let him go to nestle back into the warmth of their shared blankets.

“You only needed to ask, you know,” she said after taking in steadying breaths. “You don’t need to stage a coup with children. Were you as eager as Adam when he wanted to pick berries for pies?”

“The boy told me they hadn’t had much in the way of sweet treats since the baker left, so I can’t really blame them,” he confided. “Didn’t think they’d take that many though. Nor that I’d be given a share since, and I am being honest here, I didn’t tell them to. They just thought it up themselves.” He brought his arms up to tuck his hands behind his neck, careful not to hit the blonde beside him. It wasn’t to appear unaffected, but he was losing an internal battle with his hands wanting to grab the blonde’s.

“I guess it won’t really hurt. We’d just have to guard them better,” she mused, a smile playing in the corners of her mouth. “Do you have a treat you’d like me to bake for you?” she asked after.

Crowley felt his heart stutter and glanced at Aziraphale. She faced him, looking expectant. “Can’t say I have a favorite,” he swallowed thickly. He was clutching into the thought of her wanting to bake him something. “Didn’t had much time hanging about bakeries, my mother wasn’t much of a cook. And when I finally had money for myself, I took to drinking almost immediately.”

“Come now, I’m sure you have a favourite snack, at least, besides alcohol,” she presses, curling beside him. Her knees brushing against his thighs.

“Apples,” he blurted out. He cleared his throat to say more clearly, “I like apples.” She shared her apples with him, that first night they spent together. It was a meager meal but it had been mana to his once loveless soul.

“Hmmm, I can work with that,” he barely heard her. He closed his eyes, trying to picture where her thoughts were running off to. He fell asleep over the image of a large apple tree laden with ripe red fruits with them lounging in its shade, his head in the blonde’s lap.

* * *

Aziraphale was an accomplished liar. She spent years crafting a character to hide her true self behind, to the point where she would believe in her own fabrications. But there was one lie she could not convince herself, and that was that she was _not_ harbouring feelings towards Crowley.

She had been anxious that first night sharing a bed, but the man had been nothing but a gentleman to her. What shocked her more was that she was disappointed with it. But they were reaching a comfortable routine during their co-habitation. She would wake earlier than him, but would rouse him enough to tell him she was going to get up, to avoid the haunted look he had that first morning they had in the mill. Crowley would grunt or mumble in response. (She had briefly considered waking him with kisses, but she thought it would not be welcomed. They barely knew each other. And they talked late into the nights and bantered as they walked to and from the village square – like close friends, not exactly lovers, she insisted to herself.)

But each morning Crowley wakes early enough to walk her to the tavern. He then goes back to garden or stayed with Anathema to help brew whatever concoction was needed by her clients. (Newt had been relegated to clean-up duty long ago after breaking too many glass bottles and upending highly flammable and dangerous materials on himself. ) The red-head then greets her outside her place of work every afternoon, sometimes he had the Them crowding around him, mostly complaining that their berry picking would be indefinitely postponed after they had dunked Pepper’s sister in the river before securing their parent’s permission.

She uses the early hours of the morning in the smithy. Anathema had given her the promised gloves and had dismantled the pieces as carefully as she could, making detailed notes, so as not to disturb the more intricate details when she takes them over to the furnace. She first tried soldering the broken pieces together, but to no avail. When she tried heating the jagged edges, the fire wasn’t hot enough to burn it, no matter how much she fed the flames. Unnaturally, it didn’t even warm after the intensive heating.

Perplexed, she tried melting gold pieces to try and bind the ends together, but the liquefied metal simply slid off the crown fragments like water. In the end, she made molds to replicate the broken pieces where she poured the melted gold. She had tried and failed in manipulating whatever material made up the crown and failed each time. She took out her frustrations on the gold and silver pieces Anathema had given her and within the week she had created a replica barely recognizable from the original, or at least it should have been if the original piece had been whole. The next day she built an identical chest to the first and hid both in their bedroom.

The blonde had asked Anathema for her input but apologized that she was also stumped at how it was to be done. She had sent more letters to Agnes, this time using owls as Shadow had yet returned. Ashamed of her failure, Aziraphale had not mentioned cloning the crown to give herself something to do. If it was not allowed, it would be easy enough to melt them. They had agreed that the brunette would tell her at once when Agnes replies. She busied herself with her baking in the tavern and whipped up far too many confections where at least one of the Them would watch her intently should she offer a taste-test, asking questions all the while.

Crowley bore the same fate. The children spent an hour more after giving the man his lunch in the garden, but this, the adults did not complain about, so long as they stayed out of the woods. The red-head would regale her on the Them’s stories and future plans after they have served their sentence. Other times, he complained about the plants he was tending and how he had resorted to yelling at them to make them grow better. She in turn would detail her newest baking creations and the gossip she got from Deirdre or the patrons that would walk in for lunch when she had to serve them. She was pleasantly shocked that they could talk so easily with each other. They would start their conversations the moment they left the square, all through the evening and in their bed until they fell asleep.

Two weeks into their cohabitation, Aziraphale woke to the feeling of a warmth seeping into her side. Her eyes opened blearily as she turned her head towards the source of the sensation and had instantly blushed at finding Crowley curled beside her, chest flushed to her side, arm flung carelessly over her stomach.

She had noticed their ever increasing physical contact, from helping her out her coat to the occasional hand holding to help her navigate the still unsteady terrain of the front gardens. She would catch the man stick himself to the wall, sometimes, to give her as much space to the point where he looked like he could climb the ceiling and still be able to lay there. Other times they lay a good hand-breadth apart. But as they merged more fully into the domesticity of their arrangement, the sleeping red-head would unconsciously seek to close the distance his sober self maintained.

She was not bothered, more to the point, she was thrilled. She had not had that same kind of contact besides the fleeting hugs the nuns had made and the nuzzling from Shadow, she had not had as much physical affection turned her way. She remembered her mother’s cuddles and had once resigned herself to never feel the same again. Until now.

The blonde stayed still, afraid to jostle and wake her companion, and soaked in his warmth. She had stopped wandering into the smithy after she finished the replicated crown and instead took to experimenting in the kitchen to keep herself busy. But presently, she thought of having a lie-in. (Despite the increased demand in the tavern’s wares, Shadwell was too stubborn a man to wake up early enough to open the business before ten in the morning.) It would be a first, but she was sure she’d disturb the red-head if she tried extricating herself, and he looked ever so peaceful in his sleep. She gently wriggled into a more comfortable position, which, coincidentally, had her buried further into the loose embrace, and closed her eyes.

The next time she opened them was to the sight of golden eyes blown wide. She marveled at them as she waited for the drowsiness to subside.

“Good morning,” she whispered, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Er… yeah, good morning,” Crowley cleared his throat, pink blossoming in his cheeks. “You’re uh, going to rip my shirt off.”

“What?” She looked between them and found her hand keeping a tight grip on his collar. She quickly let go muttering apologies as she scrambled to put a respectable distance between them, cheeks aflame. She almost fell of the bed but Crowley was able to reach out a hand to help her.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale could only nod her head. “You slept in,” he stated incredulously.

“Oh, no,” she glanced out the window to gauge the time. Unaccustomed to the experience and thoroughly distracted with the sight of Crowley’s rumpled (by her hand) shirt, she was, admittedly, disoriented. “Will I be late to work?” she voiced the stray thought then hung on to it for dear life. It was better than acknowledging the embarrassing position she found herself in. She hurriedly stood to start preparing to run down to town.

“Wait, hold up,” Crowley surged to steady her. “There’s enough time,” he soothed, hands rubbing her arms to calm her. He waited for her breathing to steady, which was a feat in itself as all her attention was geared towards keeping her body from shuddering due to all the touching. “Tell you what, I’d go make you tea while you get ready,” he smiled fondly down at her and after giving the top of her head a kiss, slinked out the room.

Hand on her chest, she listened as Crowley’s footsteps receded. She was hot all over as she tried shaking the sensations her body was trying to make her acknowledge. There would be time to analyze all her emotions later in the day. She shoved them all into a metaphorical box and tried to get her clothes to rights. She had a job to go to.

They didn’t mention the kiss, or that morning's bedroom situation, when she finally joined Crowley for breakfast but he offered his arm, which she dazedly took, as he walked her to Shadwell’s. He gave her hand a squeeze as goodbye before walking back to the apothecary. She managed to make it through lunch without dropping a bowl. Her moves were automatic but she would catch her hands petting her hair multiple times.

She tethered between heart-pumping bliss and disbelief. Was the kiss just an involuntary thing or a conscious gesture? Crowley didn’t sound like he was offended when he found her snuggled far too close to him. But he couldn’t really blame her. He hugged her first! _Would he do so again tonight?_ She blushed at the thought, and denied profusely to herself that it had crossed her mind. Perhaps they’d talk it out. She’d make sure they do. Nodding to herself, anxiety temporarily dulled, she dove back into the ovens to retrieve her loaves.

When she stepped into the street that afternoon, she found Crowley in his usual spot, leaning against the wall, eyes closed beneath his hat, lips in a wistful curve. He didn’t look displeased, so she casually walked nearer. Her skirts warned him of her approach and dutifully met her half way, grinning from ear to ear, again crooking his elbow for her to take.

“I need to run over to Anathema’s real quick, then we can go home, angel,” he told her. “I just didn’t want you coming out and looking for me,” he winked.

“Oh, hush, you,” the red-head’s grin was contagious and she was seconds away from a giggling fit when they entered the apothecary and got almost knocked over by an agitated patron. Thankfully, Crowley's reflexes pulled her aside before the collision.

“Oi, watch where – “ Crowley started then froze. Aziraphale followed his gaze, intrigued at the sudden silence.

The man didn’t look too intimidating, but he had an air of authority that demanded attention. He stood frozen like the red-head, arms outstretched in an aborted effort to help. Hazel eyes were staring past her to meet the archer’s. He had dark red hair trailing down to his shoulders in lazy waves. The same shade as Crowley’s.

And as the semblance took hold, Crowley croaked out, “Raphael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! New character! :D
> 
> Finally, another plot point ticked off. It took a while to squeeze Raphael in, but I wanted to bask in a little fluff.
> 
> Been terribly busy with work and needed to get at least some of it out the way or else I'd feel guilty with posting this. But I wanted this out as my way of celebrating the GO TV anniversary.
> 
> My internet connection had been a menace this last few days, and still is. And it is interfering with both work and fic writing. So I can't promise regular updates.


	24. Broken Hearts and Apple Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion between brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Grief; Mentioned death of a loved one; Self-inflicted guilt.
> 
> ...and Crowley being carted off here and there. Emotions ran high. He'll be alright.

_“Why would you leave mother?” the young boy asked, disbelief and betrayal clear in his voice._

_“Because she says she needs to stay with father,” the older boy scowled._

_“I can’t bear to see her suffer any longer. Please take her with you.”_

_“And what? Have father hunt us down? I know what he is capable of. I know we won’t make our destination alive.”_

_“I’ll stall father. Just please take her away from here.”_

_“I’m not leaving you alone with him. And if I was to take a stowaway, I’d rather take you. I’m sure Sir John would take in another squire or he’ll ask one of the other knights to take you in after we talk to him.”_

_“We both know my fate, Raphael.” Young as he was, Crowley was wise and brave beyond his years. He had to be to keep his father from overwhelming him._

_“That doesn’t mean I still won’t try and question it every chance I get.”_

_“My name’s been in the registry since the day I was born, I was told. I’ve accepted it. And you have the chance to run away from the same future I’ve got,” his voice was rising, and he tried to bring it back down before any of the neighbors, or worse, their father, hears of their conversation. “I care for nothing but mother’s health, safety and happiness. None of which she will have if she stays here. Can’t you ask your knight to take her along?”_

_“Mother asked Sir John to train me. She knew of his influence in the court and had him swear to keep me from father. She said nothing about herself.” Raphael sighed, rubbing his temples as if the decision was never his to make, but burdened with all the same._

_“I know her health’s failing little by little,” Crowley felt tears in his eyes. “Please save her!”_

* * *

Raphael grabbed Crowley’s arm, dragged him out the door and stuffed him into a waiting carriage. “To the castle!” Raphael barked at the driver and they thundered away. He didn’t even get to look back. He was fuming. They left a bewildered Aziraphale behind. He was supposed to be walking his angel back to the mill. They were finally moving closer into each other’s orbits as he had fantasized for days. That morning when he woke up wrapped around his angel was the most disconcerting, embarrassing, and elating moment of his life thus far. To top it off, when he tried to pull back, the blonde had grabbed his shirt while grumbling in her sleep, a subconscious effort to keep him by her side. She didn't even recoil from him during that moment of weakness where he lost himself and had kissed her hair. Everything had felt perfect. He knew it was all too good to be true.

And it was his brother’s fault. A brother who had forsaken him and their mother. Who he had begged for help but received none. Whose footsteps he yearned to hear as their mother drifted in and out of consciousness. Whose face he sought during her funeral.

A brother who was now restlessly babbling on about how wonderful it was to see him. He could only glare, too angry to trust himself to not shout at the man opposite him on the carriage.

“Your Guild never did tell me where you went all those years ago,” he chattered. “Wouldn’t even entertain my questions if you were still alive or not. No amount of cajoling, or money, made them open their mouths. Had to give up.

“I run things here now, you know and couldn’t leave the place without worrying. The instigators of the war are getting closer. They wanted me to choose a side but I chose neither. I came back here, readying what little army I have to fight against all of them. I’d rather not have my people ruined from their petty squabbles over power. Thankfully, the pass is the only way in. We’re working on strategies to use that factor to our advantage. I have men monitoring the ins and outs of the place. Although, how you got through without word reaching me was a miracle.”

The ride didn’t take five minutes and soon Crowley found himself seated in Raphael’s study with dinner and wine at hand. But he neither ate nor drank. He felt restless. It was growing darker. And it wasn’t that he was afraid for Aziraphale’s safety – the woman was very much capable at defending herself – it was just that he felt horribly bereft without her by his side. They had always been side by side facing each new experience since the day they met. Even the garden and the Them were not enough distractions to peel the blonde’s smiling face away from his thoughts. The face he last saw with furrowed brows.

“Agnes told me help will come from an unexpected quarter. And seeing you here was definitely unexpected. More unprecedented, really,” he caught the last of Raphael’s chattering. “I’ll have rooms ready for you and you’re more than welcome to anything you need.”

“Hold on, who said I’d be spending the night here?”

“I’m sure whatever inn or tavern you’d gotten yourself into wouldn’t mind keeping your room for the night. Tell me which one it is and I’d have someone collect your things and pay of the rent.”

“Look here, you prick, has it ever occurred to you that **I do not want to be here** ,” Crowley punctuated the last few words to get his message across.

He was successful as Raphael fell silent, trying to digest his vehemence to leave. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times but thankfully kept silent, enough for Crowley to get his thoughts together. He only knew he was in a castle, and was seated in an opulent study. It was safe to assume that his brother was at least a highly respected courtier. Maybe he could borrow a horse to get back to the mill. He pictured Aziraphale fretting in the apothecary’s doorway and, seeing as he wasn’t coming back soon, trekked her way to their temporary home to pace by the front door. He imagined blue eyes scanning the path anxiously. His heart clenched. All the warmth he’d had simmering in his chest since that morning was trickling away.

“I’m sorry,” Raphael finally spoke. “I know I owe you an explanation for all this, but I’m a little lost here,” the tone was of clear exhaustion. “Aren’t you happy to see your brother?” he gave him a weak smile.

Crowley scrubbed his face with his hands. “First off, how the hell is a kidnapping going to make me happy?” he groaned. The quicker they talked things through, the faster he’d get home, he wagered. “Let’s get this over with, then. What kind of help do you think I can give you?”

“I did not kidnap you,” the older man corrected, shaking his head at the obvious miscommunication between them. “I won’t keep you here specially after you so venomously told me. But we do have business to attend to,” Raphael straightened his seat. “Right. To start, I got a visit from the Witch in the Old Woods. I had come from the capital a few weeks back and a tree fell to block the road. She came to me as the men made to move the obstacle. Here," he took a small scroll from the table. It was littered with neat lines of script. The first read:

**The first toiled in earnest. The other a loop born of Light and Darke and lover’s blood.**

Crowley frowned. “The fuck is this?”

“No idea,” Raphael shrugged. “Go to the third. The second was just something about a stomach upset from eating salad. I didn’t believe her prophecies after reading the first two. Ate the salad and spent a whole afternoon in the loo,” he grimaced at the memory.

**Afore harvest’s end, help shall reach thee from an unexpected quarter. Thy court shalle welcome a poisoned point and a pointed glare.**

“You’ve been glaring at me since this afternoon. I did snatch you away, so Ig et it. Forgive my enthusiastic welcome. And please don’t bring out any poisoned arrows. Do you know how hard it is to keep the peace here?” the older man ran a hand through his hair the same time Crowley mussed his.

Raphael grinned but Crowley just rolled his eyes. “You won’t need to worry about that. The arrows I’ve got are plain and I’ve no bow,” he slumped in his chair.

“What happened to it?” There was genuine curiosity and concern in his brother’s eyes. Raphael had been around enough back then to know how much he cared for his weapon.

“Broken. Taken. Gone.” He’d only just remembered the old hurt. Was it really just weeks ago? He figured the gardening had been a pretty good at helping him heal from his loss… or perhaps it had been those sky-blue eyes that made the pain go away.

“I’ll have someone make you a new one. Then you can get my archers in better shape than they are now,” the man said matter-of-factly. Crowley knew he was missing something from the exchange, he just couldn’t put a finger on it, so decided to plow on.

“Hold on,” he raised an accusing finger at his brother. “Train _your_ archers, eh? I haven’t said anything about helping you out. I’m no fit teacher. No one will listen to an assassin. Besides, I only come second to _the_ Crowley. Remember?”

Raphael gave him a contemplative look. “Did you know where father got his so called ‘skills’?” He waited for Crowley to shake his head. “He paid for it,” his look darkened. “With your life, while you were still in mother’s womb. I heard him thanking the sorcerer he paid to do it. You weren’t supposed to live past seven years old.” A heavy silence filled the room. “When I told mother, she made sure to ask the midwife what she needed to do to counter it. The woman said it had to be a life, for a life.”

“Who?” he whispered; eyes wide. Raphael should know what he was asking and he dreaded the answer he knew the other man would give.

Raphael took a deep breath, lifting steepled fingers to his lips as he steeled himself to reply, “Mother’s.”

A beat. “So, I really was a curse, then. I killed her. It’ll only be a matter of time before I mess things up again,” he was trembling. He had siphoned the life of the only person who never gave up on him. Well, one of two. He could turn to Aziraphale now. He paused, heart hammering in his chest. Aziraphale. Would her life be in danger as well if he stayed with her?

_No_ , a voice rang in his head which sounded suspiciously like the blonde’s. _The debt’s been paid_ , _no need to worry_. He sighed. He will worry, no matter how much he wanted to believe. It was a harsh reality to deal with. If his mother was still alive, he would have died and would never have met his angel. Then again, he never wished for her to suffer for his sake.

“She did it willingly, she had no regrets. And I knew she would happier to know you’re alive and well,” he heard Raphael say. “She also told me to make sure I come back for you but every time I did, either you were gone, or father was at home. He threatened me with death, you know, should I enter the house again. It was before I left.” Crowley did know, he heard their shouting from the gate, but he wished he’d have found some other way. “Couldn’t send letters, either. They all went straight to him. I’ve little other excuse for my absence and silence, Anthony. But I swore to mother to lead you away from that wretched place as soon as I was able. I hoped I wouldn’t be too late.”

“I got out by myself, no thanks to you,” he knew his anger was misplaced. But it was either that or cry his eyes out in grief. And he’d let only one person see his tears, and she wasn’t there.

“I know… I’m sorry.”

“I need to go,” he said after a beat. “I need to get my head around all… that.”

“Alright, I’ll send for the carriage. But I do have a pressing question I need you to answer first,” the older man’s tone turned grave. Crowley waited.

“After I’ve read over Agnes’s prophecies, I got a visit from Anathema, the apothecary. You know her, right? Of course, you do, you were in her shop,” Raphael stood up and started pacing, energy the same as that afternoon before they recognized each other. “Turns out she’s a descendant of that crazy woman in the woods and I paid in gold and silver pieces as the Witch said. Easy enough of course, I understand the expense of smuggling it out when everyone’s looking for it. But it’s been weeks and I don’t know if it made it here. And since I know now that Agnes meant _you_ were to help me, maybe you know where it is?”

“Where what is?” Crowley frowned, confusion written clearly on his face. He now understood that the Witch was more than capable of turning everyone else as mad and cryptic as she was.

Raphael tapped the fourth scribbled line on the piece of paper he’d shown him earlier and forgotten about on the table between them.

**Fetch thee some of thy treasured gold and some of thy silvered discs. Enouff to will a treasured cap, the image such of one thou seeketh.**

“The treasured cap? The crown?” Raphael prodded further.

“Oh, that,” the younger man made a face. “It’s been a thorn on our side for a while now. Aziraphale’s better off without it.” The blonde had worried herself over the bloody thing for weeks. Good to know someone else would take it out of their hands.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley bristled. “Yeah, that woman you so rudely separated me from,” he growled.

Raphael raised an eyebrow at this and hummed. “Is she a… friend?” It sounded less teasing and more concerned.

“She’s my wife,” he spat. _In this side of the mountain, at least_. Crowley thought, the voice this time was his own, and gave him no comfort. He longed to turn the statement official. The more they share their little lie with people, the deeper the hole they dug underneath themselves. And yet it was a hole he was willing to bury himself in should Aziraphale allow.

“Does she know?” Raphael asked, voice low. “What you did for the Guild?”

“Is it that hard for you to believe someone would actually choose me?” he almost cried. _She didn’t choose you. It’s an arrangement of convenience. It’s not real_. He hissed at himself. “I told her my story and if I’m enough for her, then she’s more than enough for me.”

“I just wanted to make sure she won’t be shocked should she encounter your past – “

“I’ll bring back your damned crown,” he stood up abruptly. He had the same fears. Yes, Aziraphale knew what the Guild did. Yes, she was informed of his involvement. No, she didn’t know all the details. But she was unfazed as they talked over Ligur’s supposed dead body. His angel was tougher than she looked, she’d understand. He hoped.

He walked out the castle doors, Raphael scrambling to follow. Outside, the same carriage was waiting for them. The driver jumped up to take the reins and waited for Crowley to call out the destination. They had barely settled down on their seats as the horses trundled down the roads.

When they neared the old mill, Crowley broke the silence. “I am going in, you stay here. I’ll get that blasted souvenir and hand it to you. You run off, and never bother me or Aziraphale for as long as we stay here. Got that?” He glowered at his brother and the older man sighed and gave a small nod.

As the carriage ground to a halt just outside the front garden, Crowley jumped out and dashed inside. He ran straight to the bedroom. He shook off his disappointment to have found it dark and empty. He would have thought his angel would have worried the floorboards thin as she paced, waiting for him. The rest of the mill was as silent and cold as the room. Perhaps she didn’t come home. Understandable enough as he was snatched away. No mention where he would be or if he was coming back. Perhaps she stayed at Anathema’s as the night wore on and he was no where to be found. He’d go over in the morning, the late hour weighing on his frazzled body.

He stomped to the trunk where he knew the crown was kept and reached in to yank the chest out. Aziraphale had spent mornings on it, then suddenly stopped. She had to be done with it. If not, his brother would just have to continue whatever else was needed to be done. The man seemed rich and powerful. He can get his own jeweler to work on it. He ran back out to where Raphael was waiting.

“Here,” he threw the box haphazardly to the older man who caught it deftly, despite his sudden appearance and the dark that surrounded them.

“Thank you,” Raphael said meekly. Crowley only grunted in response. “And I’m sorry for insinuating you were lying to your partner. I just wanted to look out for her as an extension of looking out for you. I know I was never around back then,” his brother continued in quiet tones. “But I’d like to be around now. If you’ll let me.”

Crowley’s fuming had subsided the moment the crown left his hands. He could only stare at the last of his kin with a tired frown.

“Flag down any guard if you wanted to send me a message. Or you could find me in the castle. Whichever method’s easier for you. I promise,” he paused, to add weight to the moment, “to be there when you need me. Unlike before…” he trailed off. He had turned to the carriage door when Crowley cleared his throat.

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbled but that simple acknowledgement brought a smile to the older red-head’s face.

Crowley watched his brother ride away then made his way back into the mill with heavy feet. He needed a drink. He’s bought a couple of bottles of good wine from Shadwell with the money he made from his first good haul from the garden. He and Aziraphale had shared one and was delighted to find the woman could match his own appetite for good booze. They had spent evenings, warmed by the fire and their easy companionship, sharing glasses. He wondered if they’d ever get to do it again.

He walked to the kitchen and froze. What loneliness he felt minutes before dissipated at the tableau before him.

The embers were glowing faintly at the hearth below a large pot of what smelled like rich vegetable soup. On the table candles snubbed themselves out as the wicks sputtered on the pooled wax. A basket was stacked with freshly-baked bread between a plate with cuts of meat and tantalizing looking tarts laid carefully on a server. And at their usual place, were the bowls and utensils they would lay out during dinner. A seat was occupied, and its inhabitant was busily dozing, head on her arms. Not even a column of fire could recreate the warmth engulfing his very being at seeing the blonde in such a state.

Aziraphale had not only made him dinner, but had waited for him until the fire and the candles died out. He took his seat across his sleeping angel to gaze at her for a few minutes more. He couldn’t help the lovesick grin that took over his face and tried to keep his giddiness at bay by taking a bite out of one of the tarts.

It had been a terrible idea as the flavors of sweet, tart apples exploded in his mouth. A loud moan came unbidden from his throat which awoke Aziraphale. She let out a startled squeak. And the sight of her trying to blink her sleepiness away filled him with utter fondness that it overrode his sense of guilt at disturbing her slumber.

“Crowley?” the blonde whispered, squinting at him in the dim room.

“Right here, angel,” he answered, taking an unlit candle by his plate and setting fire to the wick. It encased them in a bubble of illumination. Just theirs to share.

But the light paled compared to the radiant smile Aziraphale directed at him as she muttered, “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No hearts were truly broken, beside that of losing a beloved parent.
> 
> No matter how much I try to pump in angst, the couple swerves back into fluff. I let them. We could always use more fluffiness.
> 
> We were given an official announcement that summer vacation can start. Hurrah! Work-related paperwork was sent off, and the WiFi is giving us short periods of connectivity. Mind that this chapter has had repeated tries at posting. (Internet provider is a bit of a mess - work force is down by half.)
> 
> I made it past the semester with only a handful of pimples to mark my stress levels.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! :D


	25. The Next Move

“So…” Aziraphale started, making her dinner companion look up from his third helping of tarts. “Anthony?”

Crowley choked. “Er, yeah. My given name. Uh… you don’t like it?”

“Oh, I’ll get used to it,” she assured him. “Just reminds me how little I know about you, really.”

“The Guild didn’t bother with using my name. My father was the original Crowley. We looked the same, we were both archers. We were both Crowley to them. Although they called me ‘Crawly’ – a reminder that I was the pathetic one,” he grimaced. He saw Aziraphale open her mouth, most probably to tell him he was not pathetic, but he held up his hands to stall her. “Yeah, not a very nice thing to hear, sure, but it kept me from being called over for the more brutal killings. At least for a year.” He scrubbed at his tired eyes. “Sorry, but you know what my job used to be right? It’s not something I’m proud of. You might even run away from me if I’ve given you the figures. I was…uh, pretty efficient.”

“I’m not really surprised,” she said, twirling her spoon around. “Actually, I saw that man on horseback the day we met – your shots were quite precise, terrifyingly so. That's how I knew you were in trouble and needed help.”

“You saw me kill a man and you still decided to help?”

“You did not kill him,” Crowley gave her an unbelieving look. “Alright, you might just have well killed him when you incapacitated the poor soul and let those goons have at him,” she huffed then sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, you looked as if you wished you were someplace else. You were detached during the… formal proceedings.”

“That was their style, not mine. I would have gone straight for the heart. Swift, sudden, less… pain,” the Hunter in him dredged up the screams. He pushed his plate away. “And less doubting on whether or not I let the arrow fly.”

“It was a job, Crowley,” he heard the blonde say softly. She reached a hand over the table to catch his. She squeezed it as she said, “I understand. Especially after seeing what would befall you if you did not do as you were told. Although, must you people injure first, then talk after?” she snickered at him as she gave a pointed glance towards the general direction of Crowley's thigh.

“Ha!” he couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, also remembering their first day in the south. “Habit, I suppose. People tend to fight us off if we don’t maim them a bit. I remember Hastur limping back one day after one of his stints. You probably saw how he liked monologuing. Well, his target was a very good kicker. Got him right between the legs and was actually able to run off before the lout could get back on his feet,” he grinned. Crowley never thought he could share such anecdotes to anyone. It was never easy talking about his past, but to think Aziraphale stayed, cradling his hand even, after seeing the worst of his sins. "Did the same mistake with me. They never learned that cornering someone could make them desperate. That day was a nightmare," _besides the part when we met, of course_ , he wanted to add.

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t think it was that bad. There were some parts that were pretty nice, to be honest,” she fluttered her eyes at him shyly.

His brain malfunctioned briefly, her lashes fanning the fire he felt blossoming in his stomach. _Was she flirting? It looked like flirting. Was that even deliberate?_ He swallowed thickly and tried to get his senses back. “Yeah, uhm, I guess. We managed to survive for one. And I really was planning on leaving the Guild. With or without telling them. Apparently, Hastur and Ligur had the same sentiment – but with just the part of me disappearing.”

“And here I thought guilds were supposed to give you a sense of protection,” she retracted her hand after one last squeeze to start clearing the table.

“You'd think it's nice to be part of an organization like that. Bah!” He, too, stood to tidy up as a means to employ his hands which were clearly itching for more contact. “There really is no trust between the members. Just mutual understanding that we won't rat each other out, and that we'll keep each other from prison. Of course, we don't know if the mysterious disappearances of previous members weren't part of some elaborate plan to get rid of them like they tried with me. Just… no one lived to tell the tale.”

They bustled about in silence, then together they made their way to their bedroom to retire for the evening.

“Is that what happened to your father?” Aziraphale asked, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation.

Crowley could only shrug. He never bothered to ask what happened. Only if the absence was permanent.

“What did your mother think?” she asked softly.

“I never knew. She fell ill before my father was killed. I couldn't save her,” he shook his head to keep Raphael’s admissions from resurfacing. He’ll dig through all that in the morning. He arranged himself on the bed and waited for the blonde.

“Last question for tonight…” she said as she lowered herself next to him.

“Just the last?” he smiled and she batted his arm playfully. After everything he learned that day, he was surprised to find himself calm. Safe. Understood. But that was Aziraphale’s general effect on him so he let himself be lulled by her presence.

“How do you know the Duke?”

“Duke?” he asked, trying to keep sleep at bay for a few more minutes.

“Of the South, dear. The man who so roughly dragged you away from me,” she gave a little pout.

Crowley gaped at her. _Raphael was the Duke? No wonder the man acted like everyone would follow him completely without question_. Realizing Aziraphale was still waiting for an answer, said, “D’you remember me mentioning a brother?”

“Goodness! No wonder he looked like you. You must be glad for the reunion.”

“Not really. It was a little emotionally taxing.”

“I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.” She pulled the covers over them did her best to tuck him in. He felt far too fond with the feeling of being mothered. His body started to relax again, until he heard, “Would you like a hug?”

He blinked at his bed mate and he regretted the minute of silence that followed as she started apologizing for her impulsiveness. “Yes,” he gasped out and watched the blonde stutter. He knew he was pushing his luck as he shyly scooted closer to the middle of their shared space, it might have been a joke after all and he hated himself for acting far too eager.

But before he could berate himself further, he felt Aziraphale shift. It felt surreal to be given express permission to touch the person he’s been pining for the last few weeks. He reminded himself that it was a friendly gesture. To give him comfort, not a show of romantic affection. Still, he automatically snaked his arms around her in a loose embrace as she arranged herself to circle her arms around him as well. He was waiting for her to change her mind and let out a shaky breath when she didn’t.

“Thank you,” he mouthed into her curls, cursing his all too human heart and its rapid drumming. He steadily ignored the faint feeling of her heart’s pattering, which were just as fast as his. With the anticipation of again waking in a tangled heap with Aziraphale, he slumbered satisfied.

  


  


He woke finding himself still wrapped around his angel and tried to close his eyes again. But he couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead he simply listens. To her heartbeat, the rustle of the sheets as she shifts every now and again, the little sighs as she slowly started regaining her consciousness.

  


  


Suddenly, there came a loud knocking at the door jolting them both upright.

  


  


* * *

  


“Heavens! Who could that be!” Aziraphale mumbles as both she and Crowley scrambled to make themselves presentable. The bangs were too persistent to ignore and deafening in the empty halls. She had been having a lovely dream of a candlelit dinner and warm honey-colored eyes and was just reveling in the rush of watching said eyes come closer and flutter shut when the knocking began. She sighed. Perhaps her dream would continue the next time she slept. She hoped.

They reached the door and Crowley opened it to find Anathema with a raised fist.

“Agnes sent a letter!” she said breathlessly, barreling past them towards the kitchen. They followed after her for there, indeed, was a piece of paper clutched in her hand and the excitement in her body was palpable. There was something in the letter that had her trekking towards their little corner of the village when the sun had just barely brushed past the horizon.

“Your wolf gave it to me just this morning but ran off as quickly,” she continued, pacing by the door. “It says here that the Duke has the answers to your problem Aziraphale. You must go see him at once!” She placed the paper on the table so all could read the missive.

**The answers ye seek fell within nearby castle walls. Sighted yet not seen, betwixt the serpent and his kin. Tarry not as ye have ‘til autumn’s turning.**

  


“Great, another bloody riddle. Why couldn’t the old hag just say what she meant?” Anathema shoved the piece of paper closer to him and there just below the first message was:

  


**For actions leaveth consequences. Thy own free will shalle shape time yet to come. I shan’t answer for all of ye.**

  


Crowley reddened. “Right,” he scratched the back of his neck, feeling the same bout of embarrassment the morning after they met the Witch. “Er… mind telling her I’m sorry?”

Anathema laughed. “She probably already saw that coming, but I’ll put it in my next letter.”

“So, I guess this means we’re going to have to go back into the castle. But what did it mean it’s been ‘sighted yet not seen’? And who’s this ‘serpent and his kin’.” Anathema and Aziraphale shared a look and glanced expectantly at Crowley.

“Wot?”

“Dear, you’ve been to the castle,” she reminded him gently, not wanting to jolt the previous night’s tension.

“And you have serpent’s eyes,” Anathema rolled hers at his glare. He had never been sure what the villagers thought of his eyes and had hid them as carefully as he could until the apothecary mentioned that they’ve all had gotten used to him _. ‘Besides, they know when not to comment on something,’_ the brunette had assured him.

“And you’ve just found your brother,” the blonde added.

“You have a brother here?” Anathema cocked her head at him.

“Yes, he’s – “ Aziraphale began but was interrupted by Crowley’s raised voice.

“Yes, alright! I’ll talk to him again. But must it be now?” Aziraphale could see he was not ecstatic about a second meeting, but they all know it was inevitable.

“Agnes said something about the autumn’s turning?” she turned to Anathema.

“That’ll be the equinox,” the brunette recited. “The season’s turning when day and night are balanced. So that gives us a just a little more than week. We need to infiltrate the castle then figure out where the puzzle piece is. Have dinner with us and we can discuss what we need to do.” She gathered her things and declined breakfast saying she left Newt to open the shop to run over to them. “I need to hurry back before he breaks anything.” She waved goodbye as her skirts flapped out the door, boots crunching towards the gate then gone.

They went about their usual business. By evening both Crowley and Aziraphale stepped into the apothecary shop’s threshold and were met once again by the Duke.

“Ah! Anthony,” Raphael greeted. “I’m here for Anathema,” he added seeing Crowley’s sudden tense posture. “The infirmary is need of a few more supplies. Routine. We do it every few weeks,” the man blurted out, hands up in a conciliatory manner.

Aziraphale had yet to hear about what happened the night before but knew that somehow, something happened that wound Crowley’s anxieties back up. A snake ready to strike. She had not seen him that way since the first few minutes of their acquaintance. He’s got his barriers up. He was scowling more. He looked murderous. And Aziraphale understood.

That was how Crowley dealt with his old life. Anxiety, fear and the need to look and act tough were constants in his life. And Raphael, his own brother, prompted his old behavior. He had never acted that way with her or anyone else they’ve met since they passed through the mountains, even the most annoying villagers were never treated with such hate. Aziraphale realized that the idea of running away from his past freed him – he had laughed and smiled effortlessly. And she missed that carefree expression of his immediately. She decided to remind him of their newly-acquired liberty.

The blonde shifted closer to her companion and slipped a hand slowly into his. His fingers jerked at the initial contact but only briefly as he realized who was reaching out to him. She waited to catch his eyes and offered a smile. She hoped that he hears her silent pleas.

_Calm down. I’m here. It’s not like before. I’m here. You won’t fight alone._

Crowley’s glacial expression thawed slightly in acknowledgement and they both looked back at the Duke.

“We won’t get in your way, then,” the red-head said and Aziraphale felt her being tugged further into the shop towards the counter. They could hear Anathema and Newt shifting boxes from some other room.

“Anthony,” they heard the Duke call. She felt Crowley tighten his hold on her. “You haven’t properly introduced me to your companion yet.”

“Gee, wonder whose fault that is,” he quipped, a harshness still clinging to his tone.

“Crowley,” she admonished lightly. They needed to get back into the castle without fuss. Otherwise, she’d let the red-head do as he pleased. She had no right to interfere in a family spat.

He sighed. “Fine. Raphael, this is Aziraphale. Aziraphale, Raphael, my brother. Happy?”

“The Duke’s his brother?” came a hiss, which sounded suspiciously like Newt’s, and a muffled shush in Anathema’s tone, from somewhere behind them.

“It is an honor to meet you,” Raphael bowed to her and she curtsies back.

There came a crash by door as Anathema emerged, arms piled high with boxes. They could see Newt sprawled at her feet. Aziraphale extracted herself from Crowley’s side to help. The brunette however was unfazed by it and arranged her load by the counter and began checking her list.

“All accounted for, sire,” she said as she took Newt’s packages and lined them alongside the others. “How else may we be of help?”

“That’s all for now, thank you,” he opened the door to call over a servant to take care of the purchased supplies. He then turned to his brother with a shy smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to have a drink with me. You didn’t touch your glass last night, perhaps you’d indulge in one this evening. I can escort you back like before.” Aziraphale could see the hope shining in his eyes.

“I have a prior engagement,” Crowley replied gesturing towards her and the others.

Raphael’s eyebrows shot up, looking between them. “Oh, you’ve become more social. That’s… new.”

“Snake eyes, remember?” the older man snorted lightly in somber agreement. “Besides, just you wanted to get a drink with means I’m throwing away my plans with other people.”

“Please don’t look offended by it,” Anathema offered. “Crowley’s been known to drop everything to keep his play dates with the Them.” Aziraphale giggled as the comment the prompted a pout from the red-head.

“The village children?” the Duke grinned as well.

“They’ve brought me berries and other fruits of any and all varieties they could grab hold of in the woods. I’ve had such fun baking with them,” Aziraphale admitted as she made to stand beside her partner. For they were partners at least, in crime and in their temporary arrangement. She was thrilled to see the pout replaced by a soft smile.

“You bake?” Raphael's smile was getting wider with every word uttered.

“I work next door at Mr. Shadwell’s.”

“Ah, you’re the reason the soldiers disappear almost en masse during lunch,” he shook his head then turned to Crowley. “I’ve heard they’ve been trying to catch the mysterious new baker in Shadwell’s tavern. Best watch your wife, brother.”

“I’ve no intention of letting her out my sight,” Crowley snaked an arm around the blonde’s waist to pin her to his side. Her hand automatically went to his chest, an imitation of their new sleeping position. She blushed, willing her heartbeat to steady.

“I see why you were so adamant to get back last night,” he winked at them. There was a proud twinkle in his eyes as he looked them over. The door to the shop opened once more to admit a guard in a simple uniform.

He announced, “Duke Raphael, the generals await your presence at the meeting hall.”

The man sighed. “I’ll be right there. Please wait by the carriage.” As the door shut, he turned back to Crowley. “The generals are getting restless. I know you’ve had very little time to think about my offer, but I would like to say that I’d be eternally grateful should you accept.”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley sighed. “I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”

Raphael beamed. “Glad to hear, Anthony,” he strode forward to grip the younger man’s shoulder. “And bring Aziraphale with you. You might both enjoy the gardens and perhaps you’d be more inclined to stay longer.” He bid them farewell and walked out into the evening.

“We have a free pass inside the castle now,” Crowley smirked, turning towards the group. “So, what’s the plan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (My eyelids were getting heavy as I tried editing this. Please be patient with any mistake you've seen.)
> 
> We're saying goodbye to domestic fluff for a bit in the next chapters.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments! WiFi's still unbearable and A03 emails aren't reaching me properly. So, updates regarding my inbox are slow or sometimes not there. But I read the comments when the connection let's me.
> 
> You've made it so far! Congratulations! And thank you for sticking around!


	26. Choose Me

The next day brought another visitor to the mill’s door, but offered only a few meek knocks before waiting patiently for the door to open. It was a footman with the Duke’s livery, come to take them to the castle. By the end of the garden lane stood a small carriage. Aziraphale was glad they were far from the village square or else the sight would cause undue fanfare.

“Is that necessary?” she whispered to Crowley as the closed the door behind them.

“It’s just a ride, angel. We’ll get to the castle faster that way.” Aziraphale noted that Crowley’s tone was a little flat. He was not enthusiastic about the visit. Although, _she_ was, she had completely forgotten to question how they were to arrive at their destination.

She felt her throat constrict. “Are you sure I’m needed there, my dear?” she asked quietly, nerves getting the better of her. Newt had volunteered to help Dierdre for the day after handing over the recipes needed for the what must be done.

“Angel, I’d rather have you with me or else the instant I see Raphael’s face, I’ll act more than the wanker that I already am,” the red-head gave her a pleading look and offered an arm, which she took instinctively. She very well could not say no to him after that.

She sat in the seat at the back and pulled her hood about her face. _It was fine_ , she reminded herself. She was not riding the horse; the horse was pulling a handsome carriage and not a person, nor a cart laden with an incapacitated person; she couldn’t even see the beasts. The only problem was, she could most certainly hear them.

She gripped the fabric on her lap tightly. The force would have been enough to tear had her skirts been less coarse and thick. Her eyes were shut and she set her mind to reciting a ballad she once heard sung by minstrels in passing. It was one of those tunes that get stuck in your head and wouldn’t leave. She shut all other sensations out.

She came back to reality when she felt hands on her shoulders and looked up to find a very worried Crowley.

“Are you alright? I’ve been calling your name for a while.”

She noticed the horses had stopped just outside large stone steps leading to a grand set of double doors. She supposed they’ve entered the castle’s courtyard. She breathed in deep, glad to have the ride over. At least until the evening where they had to take the blasted thing back to the mill. She wondered if she could convince Crowley to come without her next time.

“Angel….” she heard Crowley call again. “What is wrong with you?”

“I-It’s nothing,” she gave him a shaky grin and moved to get out the door the footman had left open.

Crowley shot an arm to close it back again. “We are not getting out of this thing until you tell me why you’re looking pale.”

“Please, don’t worry about me. I promise I’m alright now.”

“Now… which means you weren’t alright before. Now spill.”

Aziraphale cursed her slip up. Her hands made to wring her skirts again, but Crowley caught them before they could.

“Angel, please..” his voice was soft, the softest he’d talked to her so far. His eyes locked intently with hers.

She gave a stuttering breath. “R-Remember when I told you my father was dragged around behind a horse?”

“Yeah?” he said slowly.

“My father bled for days on end,” she flinched at the memory. “We had to hire a horse and cart to carry him when we were sent away. Mother sat with him and I on the saddle. And so, besides the glaring memory of seeing him pulled around the square, I got the most vivid recollection of his tear-stained face as he cried in agony every time I looked back at him as we traveled to who knew where.”

The red-head kneeled before her, face twisted in sympathy.

“Every whiny, snort, or clippity clop I hear, the images rush up to the forefront of my mind and all I could do is freeze,” she recounted. “I was the cause of that pain, and I wished it had been me.”

“No,” Crowley’s voice was firm, and his hand brushed the errant tears she wasn’t aware she shed. “Never blame yourself for other people’s cruelty, Aziraphale, no matter if it was a direct reaction to something you’ve done. And you didn’t even do anything. You were the victim there. That noble had a choice to act like a decent human being but chose to make the world more miserable than it already was.”

The blonde found herself pulled into a tight hug. She nuzzled Crowley’s shoulder with a whispered, “Thank you.” They stayed that way for a minute before Aziraphale pulled herself together. They had an audience with the Duke. It would be bad form to look more like a mess.

“We’ll walk back later,” the red-head assured her as they both straightened themselves up and alighted from the carriage.

The crisp air brought back the color in her cheeks. “I’ll be fine,” a cocked eyebrow met her reply. “Really Crowley, I will be. I block every sound out and scream in my own head to keep my brain from registering the noises. That’s, erm, the reason I didn’t react to you. I’m sorry.”

“You know angel, I’d like to see the day you be a little more selfish.”

“I ran away didn’t I?”

“Out of fear, not to live a more peaceful life,” Aziraphale could only bite her lip, it was the truth, after all.

She looked around to distract herself and marveled at the sight. There was more mountain than castle. The courtyard was a ledge jutting out from the Southern Ridges, which housed the castle. The road must have run at an incline, for looking out the still open gates, she saw the village, a patch in the distance below, hugged by the green foliage of trees. She could make out the sea a little further away to the east. The air was cooler and the winds stronger. The place looked natural, ragged, but it appealed to her more than the meticulous facades of other nobles’ homes.

They were ushered past the main corridors into a waiting room, the interior filled with lush carpets and stately furniture, but worn down enough to show that they were actually being used besides being something to show off to visitors. Sconces lining the walls and chandeliers from above added to what light streamed from slits high above a wall facing the front of the castle.

“Brother! Aziraphale!” came a call from the open doorway. Raphael walked towards them, a wide grin on his face. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“We couldn’t very well disappoint the Duke,” to Crowley’s credit, the sarcasm bled a little less thickly than what Aziraphale had expected from him.

“Ehhhh… Don’t be like that Anthony. Come I have something to show, which I am very sure you’d love,” he led them out the way he came, through another corridor then out towards a hollow, stretched out with fruit trees growing at the far end. The space between was being used as training grounds, busy with soldiers and craftsmen.

“We’re not planning on entering the wars, directly,” he told them as they passed soldiers in sparring practice. “Just making sure that they won’t catch us by surprise. It’s best to be prepared.”

He led them to the carpenters’ tent, the last of a long line of workshops. He called the attention of one of them. The man gave him a curt nod, took down a bow from one of the many pegs by his table and presented it to Crowley.

The red-head took the weapon gingerly in his hands with an awed look. It had been painted black and varnished and polished to perfection. Dark leather wrapped around the grip and Crowley gave a thoughtful hum as he tested the strings.

“Like it?” Raphael was almost bouncing on his feet. Another craftsman came forward with a quiver full of arrows already threaded unto a thick leather belt with a snake head buckle.

It made Crowley snort, disbelief clearly written on his face. Aziraphale took the belt and held it out in a silent request. She saw him swallow and nod. She brought the leather around his waist and secured the ends then stepped back with a shy grin. “You look quite fetching, my dear,” she said, earning her a genuine smile from the red-head.

“The targets are over there,” Raphael pointed to the edge of the clearing, more than 200 yards away, where discs of hay waited. In quick succession, Crowley fired off three arrows from where he stood. All activities in the tent ceased as they looked up to twang of the bowstring. Eyes followed Crowley’s line of sight to the other end of the field where the arrows were lodged deeply into the center of three different targets.

“Show off,” Raphael mumbled but didn’t even try to hide his smirk.

“I missed this,” Crowley laughed, palming the bow appreciatively and flashing a roughish grin at Aziraphale. She felt warmed at the look of unrestrained glee in the archer’s eyes.

There came a cry from one of the soldiers. The man ran forwards, sword in hand, poised to strike.

“Lucas, no!” Raphael shouted but the blade was already a foot away from Crowley’s chest.

Before it made contact, the sword’s trajectory was forcefully derailed to the side, sending the soldier to fall forward, the blade impaled into the earth by Crowley’s feet. Lucas grunted and tried to pull the weapon back out but found a hand gripping his wrist and a dagger held dangerously beneath his chin. Steely blue eyes leveled him to a standstill.

“The blade is poisoned, so I suggest you _not_ take ahold of it,” Aziraphale let out coolly. Inside she was far from calm. The cry had her hitching up her skirt to take hold of her dagger. She had but seconds to act and silently thanked whatever deity was present at that moment. She had gritted her teeth as she deflected the oncoming blade, sliding it away from a nightmare – that of seeing Crowley, on the ground, blood pooling on his torso and back with sightless honey-gold eyes staring back at her.

Strong hands hauled the soldier away. Aziraphale relaxed her grip to let him go, but stabilized her stance further. She focused on the sound of Crowley’s panting behind her, using it to restrain herself from running after the madman who dared attack her partner.

“But General, it’s the Black Serpent! He’s the assassin that felled a hundred soldiers from a Northern clan in a single ten-minute siege,” Lucas screeched.

“I was cornered and either I kill them or they kill me,” Crowley shrugged. To anyone else it would have looked nonchalant, but Aziraphale had had weeks to drink in the archer’s tics. She turned her head a fraction, enough to see that his shoulders had not gone down all the way. His discomfort was palpable, at least to her. And although she couldn’t see, Aziraphale knew the tension he was subjecting his spine and upper back was as tight as the bowstring he held.

“That’s enough, Lucas!” yelled Raphael. His hands were visibly shaking but his voice firm and demanding. “That man is my guest and my brother. I shall have no further attempts at his life!” The Duke reached for Crowley’s arm and dragged him away from the parting crowd. Aziraphale a step behind them, dagger still in hand.

As soon as they entered the corridors leading back into the castle, Raphael let go of Crowley’s arm but kept his back to them.

“I didn’t think this through,” Raphael mumbled. “But you see he’s been here only a few months. None of the others would say that, they’re usually lax, I mean most of them were trouble makers or outlaws themselves and would never out other people’s past. The boy hasn’t learned the unspoken rules. Well, I thought it wouldn’t matter!” His arms flapped every which way as he tried to shake off the tremors wracking his large frame.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered suddenly. “Someone recognized you. And you warned me but I didn’t listen. You almo – “

“But I didn’t,” Crowley interjected. He had relaxed in the few minutes of solitude the silent corridor afforded.

“I’ll talk to them,” the Duke said, turning to face them after a deep breath. “I’ll have someone lead you to a room upstairs while I sort things out down here.” His gaze shifted to meet Aziraphale’s and the blonde gave him a knowing, if a little subdued, smile. Raphael summoned a servant with quick instructions to take lunch into their chambers and wait on them.

They were ushered into a fairly large room. Food stuffs laid out on a low table before them, none of which Crowley could identify. He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale’s presence beside him on the settee they’ve perched on for who knew how long.

The red-head was, for lack of a better word, shaken. It wasn’t the first time he’d stared down the point of a sword, but it had been the first where he could definitely say he saw his life flash before his eyes. His mind had conjured scenes filled with Aziraphale’s smiles, giggles and even pouts.

Aziraphale. His guardian angel. The woman who forced a blade away from his exposed chest. The woman who had held his hand with one of her own and a deadly dagger with the other. The woman came to his rescue time and again.

The woman who was cradling a cup of tea and looking at him worriedly. He blinked, reacquainting himself with the present.

“I’m sorry…” she said tentatively, eyes boring holes into the left-over food she nibbled on from lack of anything better thing to do. “That Lucas said you’ve killed off a hundred men in a few minutes but with me there, they’d think you were hiding behind my skirts. I mean, I know you won’t like being bested by that bas-, ahem, bad excuse for a soldier, and you had no other weapon and I moved on instinct. Please, forgive me. I’ve had enough experience with male pride, and although you’ve never particularly…”

The woman who he found so infuriatingly selfless.

“Angel…” he scoffed, ending her tirade.

“Yes?” she squeaked.

“Have you seen Beel? Anyone from the Guild knows never to underestimate women. Besides, you didn’t make me look weak,” she frowned, clearly not believing him wholeheartedly. “You did that to the other guy. It would have looked like I was far too important that I’d let a girl fight a fledgling like him,” he said with a sly grin. “Wait until I introduce you as my wife. Oh, they’ll all be jealous.”

“You know we’re not really married, right?” she said, voice sounding small, a finger making circles on her knee.

“Would you like to be?” he heard the words tumble out his mouth without intending them to.

“I – “ the blonde started but didn’t get to finish as Raphael stormed into the room with another man muttering behind him. Crowley recognized him as the same one that pulled the rogue soldier away from them. The kid had called him a general.

“Now,” the Duke said as he came within hearing distance, not even stopping for breath. “We know it’s short notice, but the council is gathering along with the rest of the main troops and I want you to be there. I promise they would behave this time around. I really, really need you to help the archers… please,” he tacked on the last word with a jittery smile.

Crowley felt lost. What was Aziraphale going to say. Would she say yes? Would she nervously reject him? He had trouble understanding the words his brother was spouting.

“Raph,” called out his companion, giving him a pointed glare and an imperceptible nod towards the pair. _At least one of them could read the room_ , Crowley thought. Aziraphale was blushing furiously and he was tempted to throw them out and demand to hear the rest of her answer.

“Er… bad time?” Raphael asked, catching on.

“No,” Crowley sighed, glancing at the blonde who kept her head down, eyes on her lap. “We can continue our talk later. Your situation sounds urgent.”

“Right,” the Duke ran his hand through his hair and waited for permission from the general, who gave him an exasperated nod. “Let me explain quickly. We’ve talked of stationing archers all along the Southern Ridges to fend off attacks but almost all of the volunteers are locals and the people from these parts had relied on fishing and simple traps. In other words, they’re not very good with bows and arrows and we want to at least have them fire as many as they could to distract invaders.”

“But I’m no leader, unlike you.”

“No. But you’re the best bloody archer around. Even more so than father.” Raphael was persistent, he’d give him that and Crowley was starting to warm up to his brother again. All it took him was voicing out his advice to Aziraphale to call out his own hypocrisy. He was not at fault for his mother’s choices. And he was starting to believe Raphael’s insistence that she had not regretted her decisions.

Crowley snorted derisively. “You already have a general,” he craned his head to nod at the man behind him. “Wars are his right to command. Not mine. And I will not accept responsibility of men dying due to my inexperience. We’ve gone through this…”

“But that’s the thing. We’re keeping them high in the mountains and far from the bloody mess the infantry will be in,” he explained.

He sighed. “If you’re sure they won’t run away from me…” he stood, waiting for Aziraphale’s reaction.

The blonde simply said, “I’ll wait here, then.” He couldn’t tell if she was mad or disappointed and his whole being was telling him to sit down again.

“Aziraphale…” he begged, for what he wasn’t sure.

“ **Aziraphale?** ”

All three heads snapped to look at the general.

“General Furrow?” the blonde breathed out and to everyone’s shock, the man ran to embrace her, pulling her up from her seat and twirled her like an overenthusiastic uncle meeting their favorite niece after foregoing visits for so long.

“By God, child. Look at you!” he said, setting her back on the ground, keeping her at arm’s length. “Young Alice told us what happened. I was mortified and left to look for you but it had been a month since we last saw each other and no one could tell me where you went.”

“You know each other?” Raphael asked, face volleying from one face to another.

Remembering the other two in the room, General Furrow faced them, slipping a protective arm around her shoulders and said, “Raph! We are saved! This girl!-nay!-woman! In all her glory shall be our saving grace!”

“Excuse me?” Crowley was finally able to get his mouth to work. Aziraphale felt as baffled as him.

“You see- she, well she will – “ the man stopped to gaze back at her. “If she’s kept at her practice, that is.” An eyebrow raising in inquiry.

“Is a few days in say five years count?” She said sheepishly. She felt like the child she was when she had forgone her practice in favor of apple picking when she ten.

“Right,” the general frowned, but gave her shoulders a fond squeeze before finally letting her go. “I’m setting you up for drills after the council has had their say. Which reminds me, we better go. Come along.” Raphael took Crowley’s elbow to steer him out the room, as the general propped the door open.

Aziraphale stayed behind. They were in the world of men. A different place altogether. And she was in skirts.

“Aziraphale! Hurry up,” the general bellowed.

“But I – I’m in a dress.” She said confusedly. A dress is never taken seriously. She had been ushered many times to Gabriel’s court to bring out his newest weapons. None of the ladies were ever present during those times and the maids that had entered were either leered at or grabbed. She doubled her efforts to hide her true identity after that.

“We can see that,” and he crossed to her side, taking her hand to thread it through his bent arm. She felt herself tugged along, Crowley in the same predicament with his brother. The Duke and his general wore matching grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post the whole 'demonstration of BAMFness' in here but it was getting too long (shout out to Luinil_Rav! :D), so I chopped it off at what I think was an appropriate enough plot point.
> 
> I'll post the next chapter in a day or so... if the WiFi feels merciful.
> 
> And I'm contemplating on adding steamy bits. Should I add steamy bits? But it won't be explicit. Can't. Smut hates me.


	27. The Demonstration

True to her expectations, Aziraphale was the only woman in the cavernous meeting hall – the furnishings made it out as an old ballroom. Eyes, more than two hundred pairs at least, first fixed at Crowley then at her. She wasn’t sure if they were present during that morning’s theatrics. Before the assembled men could react further, General Furrow yelled out, “Any hand that dares take a hold of her will be cut by my own sword!” Crowley’s fingers twitched, but he kept them at his sides. She snickered at him, forgetting the awkwardness minutes before, as she watched him struggle to not make a scene, unsure whether the threat was true or not. More likely, he was afraid she wouldn’t want his touch. That was something they’d need to talk over properly. But for the time being, she rolled her eyes at him as he struggled to suppress his grin.

They walked towards the front of the room where the general and Raphael took their places. Crowley found a chair and seated Aziraphale on it before taking his place behind her, wayward stares had followed their every move.

“To start, let me formally introduce my brother, Anthony. He shall be in charge of archery training over the next few weeks while the other nobles are keeping at the other’s throats and have yet set their sights on us,” Raphael announced to the room, the silence was deafening.

“The woman, Aziraphale, on the other hand, is not here to bestow favors,” General Furrow added. “To those of you who had not seen the feat she pulled off at the training grounds, I suggest you take such nonsensical thoughts out of your heads. She is a soldier at her core,” he said proudly.

“But she’s soft,” someone barked, laughter spilling from somewhere at the back of the hall interspersed with shushes and sniggers. “Are we really that desperate that we’d allow women to fight our battles for us?” she had the sudden suspicion it was Lucas, but she dared not look at the voice’s direction. The room erupted into arguments. The council members – advisers to the Duke, all five of them – turned from the noise and engaged Raphael, who waved the General and Crowley over, in conversation. A few of the minor nobility, guessing at the state of their clothing, approached the group as well. They talked on, indifferent to the rest of the room. She supposed it was a common enough occurrence that they knew better than try to silence them and waste time. She supposed they were asked to participate should a major decision was required – ones that directly influenced their well-being.

The blonde was surprised that one raised hand from Raphael could silence the hall immediately. This happened a couple of times as he relayed the gist of what the head table had been bickering about. From what she deduced, there had never been a need for proper military forces from the south, until recently and they were scrambling to get their defenses strengthened. They weren’t to attack outright, nor take sides. They were to try and stay neutral, unless forced to take arms, but only to defend their lands.

Raphael, she heard from Anathema, after being bestowed the dukedom, had asked if the other nobles could just be ‘nice to one another’ which prompted their shunning him for years. The South traded fairly with all parts for the kingdom but had secluded itself well. The other nobles had only started reaching out to him when the Queen suddenly disappeared and factions materialized, craving additional resources.

_There was something to be said about privacy_ , Aziraphale thought as she made to ignore the stares she felt on her all the while. She scanned the room surreptitiously, taking in the scowls and exasperated amusement from most of them. When she brought her sights back to the front, they met the General’s glazed look. He gave her a slight tilt of his head. She remembered that look and vehemently shook her head. She did not want to step on any more toes that afternoon. He gave her a shrug then went back to the others.

When the individuals at the front broke away from each other, the crowd did the same and the babble heightened as bodies streamed out the hall doors. The whole affair had lasted less than two hours. Crowley came back to her side followed soon after by the General and Raphael.

“There’s still enough daylight for drills,” the General smirked. A part of her reveled at the familiar feeling of exhilaration. The other, wishing she could get back to the mill earlier to talk with Crowley.

“Raphael wanted me to meet the bow and arrow crew, so you can play with the General,” the archer told her with a tentative smile. “Just get it over with so’s we can go home, yeah?”

“Yes.”

* * *

The party of four followed the mass of bodies back out to the training grounds, Raphael was walking close to Crowley as a precaution. There were no stray blades, but they met barbed words as they entered the fields.

“If I had known the Black Serpent would be easily cowed by a female, I wouldn’t have feared him as much,” came the needling voice.

Crowley was unfazed but he saw Aziraphale bristle in front of him. He reached out a hand to grip her shoulder. She patted it gently. “I know, I know. I won’t be bothered,” she sighs, tossing him a resigned look.

They caught another voice out of the throng, “You say that, but honestly, I wouldn’t mind being pinned down by her, eh?” Raucous laughter followed the jibe and Crowley’s grip tightened.

“On second thought…” he turned the blonde around to face him finding pink spots on her cheeks, an annoyed pout and that veiled spark of anger in her eyes. “Give them hell,” he said lowly.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up and her lips quirked upwards. She slipped out of Crowley’s hold and almost skipped towards the General.

“Changed your mind?” they heard him say. Raphael and Crowley moved closer. They saw the man’s eyes glint more than a little mischievously.

The Duke sighed and whispered in his ear. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but I’m sure it’s going to cause an uproar. That expression never bodes well.”

Crowley whispered back with a nervous chuckle, “The problem is, I think Aziraphale’s got the same gleam in her eyes.” And there indeed stood two individuals mirroring each other’s grins. The General led Aziraphale to a set of swords to pick her weapon.

The brothers sidled over.

“She’s looking intent,” Raphael observed.

“She’s always been very fussy with her weapons. Her father was a blacksmith, taught her how to criticize metalcrafts,” he smiled fondly. “I considered her as my protegee, broke my heart when her family disappeared. I was working on trying to make a knight out of her and being one of the youngest generals at the time, I had very little influence over nobles. We had this game we had where she’d spar with visiting pages and squires. She thwarted each and every one. Even those older than her. Poor lads went livid when we revealed she was a girl. It never made her popular with the local boys, either. They hated her. But I encouraged her, nonetheless. She would never survive thinking of herself as inferior to men.”

The blonde grumbled as she picked up a simple broad sword. It looked far too big for her, but she was twirling it in a single-minded focus, committing the feel of the weapon in her hand. There were murmurs from the nearby clusters of crafts and army men.

“Satisfied?” the General asked when Aziraphale walked back towards them.

“It’ll do,” she pouted.

The General nodded then called the wannabe warrior that dared sling obscenities at the angel.

“Lucas,” General Furrow’s voice rings, eliciting sudden silence in the surrounding area. “Since you’ve been very enthusiastic as of late, why don’t you show the lady what to expect when in a fight?”

Lucas sauntered over. “If I fell my opponent, would the lady award me a kiss?” Lucas smirked at Aziraphale, who had ducked her head and was resolutely studying the hem of her skirt. Raphael quickly took hold of Crowley’s arm. “Who’ll be the lucky bastard to spar with me, general?” the boy said looking pointedly at the archer. “A proper duel. Say, to first blood?”

Crowley would have preferred to death, but he would never ask that of his angel.

“Are you really going to allow this?” Raphael asked Crowley through gritted teeth and only got a noncommittal grunt from him. He was having a staring contest and winning it, too – an advantage to having creepy eyes.

“Is this really necessary?” the Duke then turned to the General.

“Very,” Furrow grinned. He pushed Aziraphale forwards, presenting the blade in her hands, and Lucas’ pleased expression dropped but he recovered himself. He sneered, taking in the ridiculousness of the situation. “You’ll have me fighting someone in a dress, general? Hardly seems fair.”

“Would you have me bring down a dress for him, child?” the soldier gawked at the idea but Aziraphale simply shook her head and fished out her dagger to cut her skirts to a point just above her knees to meet the tops of her boots. The appearance of the weapon jogged Lucas memory to a few hours prior, as evidenced by his cradling his exposed throat. His high and mighty façade slipped.

The other spectators were tittering at the scene, clearly amused by the shortening of a lady’s skirt. Both red-heads scowled at the assembly, although no one else noticed them.

“You’d give my brother a heart attack.” Raphael sounded exasperated now. Yet Crowley felt calm. Aziraphale was smiling – a radiant stretch of lips. Not for the promise of a real fight but for the excitement of playing a game she enjoyed.

“I’m more frustrated about her dress, really,” Crowley drawled. Aziraphale giggled, and Raphael could feel the open love between them. “Serviceable clothing is hard to come by, my lord,” he continued as Aziraphale finished her tailoring adjustments. He knew nothing of women’s clothes and had asked Anathema to help him buy dresses for the blonde. It was a worthy endeavor but did leave his coin pouch a little lighter.

The Duke sighed. “I’ll have five more dresses sent to you if you promise to come out of this unscathed. And here,” he unsheathed his own sword to offer to Aziraphale. “This weapon is of higher quality than that toy,” he gestured to the one in her hold. “Care to give it a go?” The blonde’s eyes lit up. It was smaller but as she weighed it in her hand, she looked far more pleased. He turned to give Crowley an anxious smile and they rooted themselves at the front of the crowd to watch the fight.

“Don’t you have faith in her? After seeing what happened this morning, I’d have thought you’d agree with me that she’ll come out on top,” Crowley said in a confident tone, but it contrasted with his tense posture. “I don’t think she’ll take any serious blows.” But then he remembered the blood weeks ago blossoming on the blonde’s clothing. It was an image he’d rather not see again, he fiddled with the arrows by his waist. “I’m more concerned at what I’ll do to the git if he even dares give her curls a tap out of line.” Raphael didn’t comment further.

* * *

Aziraphale gripped the golden hilt and watched the ruby sparkle from the sunlight. How odd that the last sword she made for Gabriel to sell would find its way back into her hands. Away from Sandalphon’s suspicious glaring, she could finally appreciate the gem resting on the pommel. It reminded her of her favorite shade of red, one she sees when early morning light streamed through their bedroom window and danced in between the strands of sleep-mussed hair. The sword looked to have been rarely used. She hefted the familiar handle in her hand remembering how she brought it to life. Perhaps she really was meant to have stumbled into the southern keeps.

“Now, my dear,” she said in the softest of whispers to the weapon. “Will you help me show this ruffian how soft I can be?” She ran her fingers over the flat of the blade then turned as she reached the tip, locking eyes with her opponent.

* * *

_The Serpent he may be, but he’s behaving himself so far_ , Lucas thought. They had been warned of the man’s exploits when he had first entered the courts. They were told to kill him should they meet, direct payment for the lives the monster had ended. Even as a young squire, he had longed for the taste of fame and fantasized of seeking the assassin out, cutting off his head and parading it about. He never thought he’d find him there in the south. He hated his mother for begging him to leave as the wars started but he found her wailing far to irritating, so he went. The Duke wasn’t half-bad. The place was just boring.

He’ been searching for some good fun for the months he’d been about. And annoying the Serpent looked like a good place to start. He couldn’t kill the bugger as he now had the Duke’s protection so he resorted to sending pointed comments down his way. He hadn’t snapped yet, which was disappointing.

His next course of action was to rile the blonde woman up. His memory of the morning was a little blurry. His mind would not accept that she countered his attack. It must have been the archer and she flung herself in between them when the danger’s been nullified enough. He wondered what their relationship was. The archer seemed possessive of her.

She had looked so meek sitting in her chair at the meeting. So _soft_ and _gentle_. A naïve little bird that fell into the Duke’s court. Perhaps he could try and seduce her. Ruining her would be proper payback. The local ladies tended to swoon over him. She’d be a nice distraction.

All his plans crumbled though, as he looked over her in the dirt ring they used for sparring practice. Lucas could not mistake how she bore herself. The moment she accepted the Duke’s sword and turned to him, in an eerily self-assured fashion, he found her stance solid and unforgiving. Her eyes were dark and cold despite their bright coloring.

_So, I didn’t dream it this morning then_ , he swallowed. She did not smile as when she entered the meeting hall or while she had so far bantered with the Duke and his entourage.

He had been surprised at the notion of fighting the blonde. It was ludicrous. He wanted to laugh and almost missed the starting horn. He was still stewing in his thoughts when the blade struck. It was a very near cut to his right shoulder, and only muscle memory stopped it from reaching its goal. But he almost lost his grip on his weapon. He skittered back. The blonde steadied her own stance, perfectly balanced, it looked. But there was coiled energy in her pose. He frowned.

“I’d be a poor gentleman if I make things hard for you, my lady.”

“I’d say you’d be a poor gentleman if you won’t let a lady have her fun,” she quipped.

Lucas gripped his sword harder. “Well, if you insist…” He lunged, twirled and stabbed. Each movement was met by equally powerful blows. He was panting after the first ten minutes and the blonde had barely moved from her spot.

He frowned. He had worried that he had to fight the General. No one had been able to beat him, he tried many times. This girl was supposed to have been easy, but her swipes had been increasing in strength. It was worse than fighting the general. She was a monster.

“Aren’t you tired yet, little lady?” _He_ was, but he would never admit it. “I can give you a break if you’d like,” he continued as they circled each other. He tapped her sword playfully but it was firm in her grasp. They had forgone the armor and the shields but his limbs were tiring from her counterattacks.

He chanced a look at the assembled audience. There were frowns in his general direction, as if admonishing him for stretching the whole affair far too long. The others were whispering with awed faces trained towards the blonde. His eyes landed on the General who was grinning far too widely; the Duke who was regarding the blonde intently; and then they met yellow snake eyes glinting with contempt.

And it was that god-forsaken stare that made his blood boil and spurred him to double his efforts. He stopped worrying about his form and inflected as much brute strength as he could at his opponent.

* * *

There were sparks as metal clanged against metal. Crowley was tense. Lucas was not taking his inevitable defeat very well. Everyone had been betting on how long the fight would have lasted and who would win. None of the odds were turned in his favor. He must have known as well.

Crowley clenched his jaw and slowly brought the bow down from his back. Aziraphale was holding her ground. She seemed unfazed but the corners of her mouth were turned down, straining against the effort of holding back the deluge of swings. Every step was calculated. Every slide was made with precision. She never bothered with attacking besides that first minute when the horn sounded and the boy was unguarded.

“She’s been conserving her energy,” General Furrow said beside him, no longer smiling. He had his sword out, held loosely in one hand. “It was always like this with the boys she fought – the confidence, the consequent acceptance of defeat and then the inevitable madness of wanting to strike her down no matter the rules.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Raphael groused.

“Pride is a sin every man succumbs to, including me sometimes,” the General watched the flurry of arms and blades like a hawk ready to strike. Crowley pulled out an arrow. “I had to check myself that first time she successfully overpowered me,” he huffed. “Aziraphale knows it as well,” he continued. “So, she keeps to defense. Less movement. It’s this stage of the fight that’s the most dangerous. They start acting like wounded and cornered animals. There had been times where they dropped the weapons altogether and started throwing punches.”

The dust beneath the fighter’s feet swirled and puffed with each slide and stomp. Lucas shot his foot towards the blonde, aiming for the stomach. But she crouched to the side then brought the flat of her blade up to lever the airborne leg away from her. Lucas screamed as he fell over backwards.

Aziraphale shot up to stand over the fallen soldier and let the tip of her sword prick the man’s flaming cheek.

As the shallow cut reddened, the crowds cheered. Crowley could see her chest heaving as she lowered the weapon and offered a hand to help Lucas up. He swatted her hand away. Crowley knew that feeling of indignity well but even empathy couldn’t lessen his distaste for the man.

The blonde politely stepped away, turned her back, and made her way back to them. But Crowley, for once, had his eyes not on her but the lump behind her scrambling to his feet. Lucas gave an almighty shriek, weapon held high above his head then arched it downwards to strike the blonde’s unguarded side.

For Crowley, time slowed in his mind’s eye. He saw Aziraphale turn, arm far too slow to bring her own blade to shield herself. He heard the collective gasps of the people behind him. And he could feel the arrow gliding past his fingers as he let go of the string.

The arrow hit the blade at its base, impaling itself in the weapon and knocking it off of Lucas’ hands. The boy yelped at the stinging force. He didn’t dare blink, notching another arrow aimed at his shoulder. But in the next second, both the General and the Duke sprinted to tackle the man down.

Aziraphale staggered back as the men tried to subdue Lucas. He watched her eyes dart to the blade a few feet away, the feathered end of the arrow still quivering with a strangely ethereal light, to him. As their eyes met, every sound – the scuffles, the outraged cries, the horrified gasps – were drowned out. He watched her drop her sword, take a step, two steps then a running leap. He flung his own weapon aside and opened his arms to catch her.

Lips met lips in the ensuing collision. Arms flung around waists and shoulders, fingers curling into hair or grasping unto fabric and the world shifted beneath their feet – everything falling into its rightful place.

“Is this enough of an answer for you?” Aziraphale whispered against his mouth, as they reluctantly paused, gasping for air.

He moaned and yanked her even closer, claiming another taste because it was.

It most certainly was.


	28. 'There Are Other Fyres Than Mine'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the chapter title? Do you know what happens next? :D
> 
> It's not explicit. I don't even know if I did it right, sorry in advance.
> 
> CW: Someone tries cornering our angel but she'll be saved.

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve stayed at the castle for a good five days but didn’t think to look for what Agnes’ message meant?” Anathema seethed. She behind the apothecary’s counter looking over at Crowley. Aziraphale had run off to the tavern next door to apologize to Deirdre and Shadwell for her absence.

“Well, er…” the red-head started to reply but couldn’t think of a good answer to her question without getting a good tongue-lashing from the witch. Both her and the blonde had been detained by Raphael and General Furrow over the last few days as the castle’s other inhabitants had adjusted themselves to their presence.

It wasn’t that they had forgotten their mission. But they had been a little busy.

  


  


* * *

  


After Lucas had been securely detained that fateful afternoon, the Duke came to apologize to Aziraphale over the less than gentlemanly outburst of one of his youngest soldiers.

“A feast perhaps would do us all good,” he said, leading both of them back to their chambers. “All the others are clamoring to properly meet you two but I thought all that could wait for later.”

“What he means,” General Furrow ran up to them. “Is that each of you had almost died today and he feels extremely anxious in the event others follow Lucas’ example and actually succeed in killing you.”

“I’ll have the cooks give us a meal to remember,” the Duke evaded, raising his voice to drown out the general’s words, as they came upon their destination. “I’ll also have someone come along to give you a change of clothing, some tea and whatever else you might require.”

Neither of them said anything, still dazed from the excitement of the afternoon. More specifically the rather passionate kiss they had to break as the whooping from the audience grew. Crowley was contemplating on the merits of reinstating his lips against Aziraphale’s when the servants knocked on their door bearing the promised clothing.

The maids took the angel away to get her dressed. They could exchange apologetic glances before they separated. The next they would meet was back in the ballroom. The hall, this time, was decked with more tables, candles and musicians in the corner. The food was spread out on more tables against the walls a good distance from the revelers.

Unlike the afternoon, there were more women in the room. Some were dancing, others simply mingling. He stayed in the shadows scanning the for blonde hair, restless to find the one person that could get him to calm. He had been greeted by a few of the other soldiers either asking more about his skills or where Aziraphale was.

The latter had the effect of perked up ears and hopeful eyes, which made his mood sourer and sourer each time it was repeated. He began to lurk in the darker recesses of the room, trying and failing to sulk. Raphael found him hiding behind a large curtain staring wistfully at the moonlit gardens underneath the windows.

“I wondered where you’ve buggered off to,” the Duke reprimanded lightly.

“Just not used to… socializing,” he mumbled.

“Come now, you’ve turned into quite the celebrity in just a few days.”

“I was already a celebrity, if I took Lucas’ reaction to meeting me. Just not the likeable kind. This,” he gestured to the bright room. “Is the direct opposite of that.”

“This whole affair is for you and Aziraphale you know,” Raphael bumped his shoulder. “At least try to enjoy it.”

Trying to keep the thought of Aziraphale still being absent at that moment, he turned to lean his back against the window and studied Raphael. “Yeah, alright. Really nice party. Won’t lie. Great job by the way getting it together in so short a time,” he gave his nails a lazy buff on his lapels.

“Well,” his older brother cleared his throat. “I’m a very efficient man and everyone is very good at taking orders.”

He hummed and waited, certain there was more to the story.

“Alright,” the Duke sighed and leaned against the window beside him. “I had the castle hands ready everything since last night, just in case you did show up. It would have been a celebration for you taking up my offer or if you rejected me again, I thought if a good talking to couldn’t make you run off to live with me, perhaps good food and alcohol will.”

“You’ve already gave me a bow. You ought to stop trying so hard to please me.”

“I still want to. It’s not every day I can spoil my little brother,” he grinned, hands hovering over the younger man’s head, clearly asking to touch. Crowley rolled his eyes but lifted his head to be ruffled. They both sniggered at their old game. It had been so long since they’ve done it. “I mean I am grateful you finally decided to help, but you should know that whatever else you need, I will gladly lend a hand,” Raphael settled back to let Crowley fix his hair.

Still unable to accept the strange warmth he had been feeling the longer he spent time with Raphael, Crowley scoffed half-heartedly, letting his gaze turn back to the merry-making. A thought wormed its way into his brain. “Actually…”

He stopped short as suddenly a rustle of skirts invaded their hiding spot.

“Oh! Forgive me,” the newcomer cried. It was Aziraphale, resplendent in a long ankle length dress. It was a dark velveteen blue with gold lining. Someone made her a crown of autumn leaves in varying shades of orange and yellow with red berries poking out here and there. Coupled with the light from the many candles and torches, her face was dusted with an almost permanent rosy glow. Or perhaps it was from the exertion of running. Crowley frowned at the flash of fear he saw in her expression.

“Crowley!” she sagged in relief. She had just reached his outstretched arms when the curtain was pulled back by a burly soldier, the stench of alcohol wafting from his panting mouth.

“You little minx!” he sneered, ready to take a step further into the small space but stilled at the sight of both Crowley and Raphael. “My Lord Duke… I, er, didn’t notice you were here.”

“May I ask,” The Duke growled, just above a whisper, exasperation and simmering anger in his tone. “Why you were chasing after my brother’s wife.” He stepped forward and the man didn’t even answer the question before he bolted.

“This is getting ridiculous,” the older man clucked. “Either you get ambushed to get beat up, or get ambushed to accept the affections of the court.”

“I don’t think that one wanted to convey ‘affections,’” Crowley muttered darkly, pulling Aziraphale closer. The blonde went willingly into his hold, a tiny sigh escaping her.

“Wasn’t Furrow supposed to escort you in?” Raphael asked the blonde, bemused at his brother’s overprotectiveness but he couldn’t really blame him.

“He did, but I got distracted by the food and I’m afraid I’ve rather lost him,” the blonde answered meekly.

“I’d better find him and tell him you’re alright before he flips the tables over.” As if on cue, there came a clatter somewhere on the other side of the curtains and the General’s calls drifted into their little space. Raphael sighed and nodded a goodbye before going back into the throng.

The couple spent a few quiet minutes in each other’s embrace. A small part of Crowley was amazed that he was allowed to do so, although they’ve gone past the platonic cuddles long ago. He felt his anger trickle away, but not disappear completely.

“Should I ask what happened earlier?” he asked, unable to restrain himself and kissing her forehead.

“Best not,” she whispered, eyes closed and smiling at his little act. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He snarled, “Don’t expect me to leave your side tonight.”

“That is already more than I could ask for, my dear.”

  


  


Aziraphale and Crowley retired to their chambers as soon as it was polite to do so. It was mostly for the need to remove the blonde from the meaningful gazes of most of the assembled soldiers. No matter how many times they’ve introduced themselves as husband and wife, no one believed them, or rather, they chose to ignore the declaration.

“You know, I don’t think I could get used to being the center of attention,” the blonde admitted, clutching Crowley’s arm, still unable to shake off the nervousness from the evening’s proceedings. The maids had done too good a job on her hair and dress. Some of her previous fears of presenting as a female in social gatherings were realized. She was ever thankful that she was sat between a Duke, a General and a murderous-looking Crowley. It wasn’t that she was unable to fight the thugs off, but she was mentally unprepared for the barrage of focused intent to engage her, that she had acting the shy lady all throughout the feast.

“Next time, don’t wear dresses that show off your front too much,” the red-head groused beside her.

“Don’t you like it?” she had only let herself be dressed up to catch Crowley’s eyes. The temptation to show her feminine side to the red-head had one out with the feeble ‘he likes you no matter what’ rambling of her inner mind.

“Angel, it’s not about me,” he told her. “I’ve seen you as both man and woman. Not to mention bloodied, pale, wet, drunk, asleep, bed-headed and drooling,” she gave his arm a slap for the last quip, he simply laughed. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you were beautiful as Ash. And you are beautiful now. The dress looks good, and the leaves, and your hair…” he was rambling, gesticulating with his free arm, but Aziraphale was far too content to listen to his voice washing over her that she let him.

“The point is…” he cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the embarrassing things he just said. “Those men would probably not look twice if you’ve not been in skirts.”

“Perhaps I could ask for tunics and hose, again. They will allow for more movement, too,” she agreed.

“Oh, Aziraphale. The scandal you’ll cause,” he smirked. There were a number of envious looks from the women of the court, telling her how lovely the dress was on her. They’d probably think her a loon for exchanging her lovely gowns for men’s garb.

“I believe we’ve already cemented ourselves as the dukedom’s conversational topic for the coming weeks.”

“The Duke’s missing brother, who coincidentally is an assassin, and the assassin’s feisty sword-wielding wife – or soon to be wife after I ask Raphael to wed us formally,” Crowley stated as they made their way through the silent corridors.

Aziraphale fell silent, the reminder had her chest fluttering. The commitment he was showing her was commendable, she thought. They met in the most unflattering circumstances with fate throwing them bodily into each other’s orbits. They’ve seen the worst and the best of each other. She felt that their bond was far thicker than what marriage would offer, but the reality of the moment had her reeling. Everything suddenly felt like it was going far too fast…

“That is, if you still want to, y’know, be with me,” Crowley said in a small voice. They were standing outside their chamber door and she realized she’d been quiet for too long. The red-head was avoiding her gaze and looking like he wanted to shuffle his feet but didn’t want her to see.

“Of course, I’d still want to, my dear,” she said soothingly, raising her hands to cup his face. She sighed. Despite the speed their relationship was going, she couldn’t deny the feelings she had for him. She couldn’t deny her fears of losing him, the dream of spending the rest of her life with him…

“I love you,” she whispered.

She saw him gasp but heard nothing but her own wildly beating heart. She hadn’t meant to say so out loud. It wasn’t that it was untrue but her stomach plummeted as she realized that Crowley had yet to say the same thing. She had never questioned his feelings, but what if what he felt was just strong fondness? Marriage didn’t usually mean love. Convenience or simple companionable compatibility being the more common according to those she’d witnessed. The touches they’ve shared were sweet but they could be construed as friendly. She paled. What if she just projected her emotions into that afternoon’s kiss and imagined him kissing back? He had been humoring her blatant need for physical affection, but they’ve talked very little about emotions. He was the Duke’s brother! He had more options now for a proper match. Was her enthusiasm keeping him from finding someone else? Good Lord, did he feel _obligated_ to marry her?

Her thoughts spiraled darker and darker, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something, though she didn’t know what. But suddenly, her back hit the solid wooden door. She felt more than heard Crowley’s growl as his body pressed flush against her, the tips of their noses barely touching.

“You just can’t just say that out of the blue,” he breathed over her lips, a broken and needy sound. His forearms braced on either side of her face. Her hands migrated to his shoulders, trapped between them, feeling the tense muscles there. “Unless, you really, really mean it,” he brought his face nearer, her eyes fluttering close without her permission.

She could smell the wine from his mouth – that one gobletful he couldn’t even finish, busy as he was fending off the most ambitious of the blonde’s admirers. She was losing oxygen, she knew. Her lungs fighting to keep her from fainting, the layers of her dress making her feel far too warm. But she couldn’t move away, she couldn’t give that tiny push to cease… whatever they were doing. She was weak, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She opened her mouth to taste the air once more, greedily. Her worries flew from her mind and she closed the gap between them.

Crowley moaned, a gentle purr that thrilled her. Beastly hope reared its head again to spur her on.

“I love you,” she repeated, her lips dancing against his as she formed the words. He didn’t move away.

“And I love you,” the red head finally replied. She felt her heart stop and before it could restart, Crowley grasped her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, kissing her soundly. It was as if he was afraid she would bolt now that the words were out of _his_ mouth.

They caught their breath and stumbled into their room still clinging to each other. They passed the sitting area and went straight to the bed in the corner. It was a massive, canopied thing, thick drapes all around. They’ve avoided looking at it before, unsure if thoughts implying the use of it would have even been welcomed to form.

At that moment, neither could think of anything else than the need to hide in the darkness it offered, away from the consciousness of other people’s existence besides their own. There was a rustle of fabric as Crowley began the intricate process of helping her undress. The act was common to them, after weeks living together and Aziraphale’s frustration over corsets had yet to leave her. Crowley had more than once offered to unlace her, most nights out of pity – she had yet to master untying the knots she had done in the mornings. But all those times didn’t feel as intimate as it was at that moment.

Every slide of his hands burned her. Her fumbling fingers hindered more than helped. She whined out of pure frustration. Crowley shuddered fiercely at the sound, and moaned into her exposed throat. His eyes sought hers and their brightness in the dim space had her melting.

“We can…” he panted. “Go slow. There’s no rush. I’m not leaving,” he breathed into her hair. She nuzzled her face into his still clothed chest and it was that reassurance that calmed her. They were together and the night was young. She tugged at his tunic, making her intention clear. Their lips met again in repeated, sweet, slow dips to taste one another.

Soon her dress was a pool of blue and gold and white by the bed, her crown, she belatedly realized was already missing. Crowley’s shirt and tunic were similarly thrown aside with as much abandon. She was left splayed in her chemise underneath Crowley on the bed and she was wishing to lose those last layers between them.

“Are you sure about this?” the red-head asked, the words coming out through great effort of will. “We – we can…stop,” he gulped, an expression of pure want and the bulging mass in his pants a silent plea to go on, to _not_ stop.

“I want this, too,” she smiled up at him, hands curling in his hair pulling him closer. Every kiss they’ve shared so far was as new and exhilarating as the first, and each stoked her desire for this man who accepted her wholeheartedly.

She felt her underdress slide further up her body until it, too, was tossed aside. Crowley had divested himself of his pants and neither could articulate words properly for a time. Lips, hands, legs and hips equally engaged with this and that.

When finally they joined, Aziraphale couldn’t help but cry out Crowley’s name. The red-head cradled her face, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on her cheeks as the sudden pain ebbed to be replaced by wanton desire as she encouraged Crowley to properly claim her. She had never thought to experience that bliss of being one with someone. She had been living under a guise for so long that finding a partner that would face her lies and still wish to keep her was a task nigh impossible in her opinion. And yet there she was, gasping with each movement of her lover above her. Her hands running down his back, his shoulder, his arms, his chest. He, reverently doing the same to her.

She could feel herself drowning in sensations utterly new to her body. Crowley’s breaths inflamed her skin as he kissed what his mouth could reach, laboring to bring them both to the edge. She heard his grunt as his member drove roughly into her. It hit a particularly sensitive spot. She wailed, back arching from the pleasure. Crowley growled and did it over and over, taking her faster and harder and all she could ask was _more, more, more_.

She felt a pressure building just below her stomach. It felt electrifying, all her nerves focusing on that feeling. It bled to her toes making them curl involuntarily. She could hear her voice rising with the intensity of Crowley’s thrusts. It was like a song, her idle mind told her, and it was nearing its crescendo. With one final hit to that special spot, she felt her body convulse, warmth filling her and coating her inner thighs.

Aziraphale felt the red-head slump over her. Her vision was dotted with bright spots as she slowly opened her tightly closed eyes. Her ears slowly registered the sounds of their erratic panting, and her sweat-soaked skin cooled by the slight breeze coming through the small gap in the drapes they hadn’t fully closed in their excitement.

She could feel her muscles straining from the exhaustion but she gave them just a passing thought, concentrating more on the silky strands of red hair brushing her cheeks. She ran her fingers through them and felt Crowley smile on her shoulder. They shared that moment of silent wonder wrapped around each other until the red-head shifted. They both groaned as he slipped out of her. She shivered at the sudden lack of warmth in and around the area until the archer pulled the blankets over them both. He curled around her, snaking an arm under her. She wriggled, seeking a more comfortable position, and laid her head on his still heaving chest.

“I never thought it’d be like that,” he mumbled in disbelief.

“Did you never…?” she asked shyly, distractedly tracing the small curls in her reach.

“No!” he shouted, making them both jerk in surprise.

“Er... I meant, I’ve never thought about doing, well… this,” he gestured to them. “…before. With being who I am, I never thought a family would be a safe option,” he shivered. “I’d rather not know what my father would have done had I shown any indication back then. I’ve also been afraid I’d become like him. Never really knew what he was thinking of at the time, but I would have been devastated to have my children hate me.”

“Are you still afraid?” she breathed, seeking assurance that he was ready to take that step with her.

“Nah. It sort of…” he waved his free hand about as he looked for the right words. “Buggered off to who knew where,” he chuckled and squirmed to face her better. Hooking a finger under her chin, he lifted it so she could see the fond smile on his face. “You showed me I could be _me_ and reminded me that I was never like him, even if we had the same past. You didn’t even know you were doing it, which made me fall for you more,” he beamed at her. “And the moment I called you my wife, I knew I needed it to be true, and not a means to fool a village.”

The blonde couldn’t get her tongue to work, all the words she wanted to say got stuck in the vicinity of her bobbing throat. Instead, she raised herself to reach Crowley’s waiting lips. When they’ve resettled, Aziraphale was able to strings words properly again.

“I’ve never thought I’d even find a lover,” she mused, thinking back to the years of loneliness where only fire and soot as her constants. “Been far too busy being miserable,” she made a face, then giggled. “My mother would probably have been ecstatic knowing that I won’t die alone.”

“Mine would be the same,” he grinned at her. “She’d have loved you, too…” he said quietly.

“Oh? Some would be horrified at my unladylike profession with the hammer and my penchant for men’s clothing.”

"We both know of a profession worse than yours,” he answered, eyes going blank before he shook his dark thoughts away. “And how many times do I need to tell you that you look stunning in whatever clothes you wear… or not wearing,” he gave her a wink. Despite her shamelessness minutes before, she blushed furiously and burrowed her still naked body further into the blankets. Crowley followed her into the messed-up sheets, unwilling to allow the space between them to widen. “And,” he continued, muffled by their makeshift nest. “I’m starting to believe that she won’t mind much so long as she saw me… happy." She could sense the regret and grief in his tone.

"Are you happy now?" the blonde asked softly. Crowley kept silent but took her hand to press kisses on her knuckles.

“I’ve lived in a universe where I believed I could never accept happiness,” he pressed a finger to her mouth to keep her from interrupting him. She pouted but left him to continue. “I'm more a demon than anything else. I'm still a wanted man, you know. Lucas pointed out just one of my old ‘adventures’. I’m ready to start my future with you but I don’t think I’ll ever stop looking over my shoulder. But I am happy that you still chose me despite all that. And the sex helped, too,” he added trying for levity, she huffed and rolled her eyes at him.

“But we are free,” she said after a beat. “The moment our feet hit the southern soil, we started a new life. Beel said it herself, your old Guild can’t touch you here. Your brother’s the highest authority here. We don’t even need to give you a new name and identity. We’re allowed to be ourselves now.”

“I suppose we are.”

  


  


They soon drifted off to sleep, waking up late the next day. The maids who had waited on them gave them knowing looks. Thankfully, everyone else had taken to sleeping in as well. The aches Aziraphale felt thrilled her but would have been extremely embarrassing had someone noticed her limping. Crowley kept smirking at the number of cups of tea and water she drank in trying to banish her sore throat and hoarse voice. But she couldn’t take the teasing seriously, though, as the red-head’s expressions quickly morphed into unguarded, loving looks.

  


  


* * *

  


“We’re going back later this afternoon,” Crowley raised his hands in supplication. They were given the day off if they promised to return. The trainings had been successful so far, and Raphael felt they deserved a break. He would have wanted to squirrel Aziraphale away in the mill but the blonde insisted they would be missed. “We promise to keep our eyes open… more,” he tacked the last in response to a withering glare from Anathema.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’m just a little wound up.”

“Did something happen?” he asked.

“No… yes… well,” she hedged. “I suppose I could say nothing’s happened _yet_ ,” she rubbed at her temples and tried smoothing out the creases on her brow before speaking again. “I knocked over my box of cards where I kept every one of Agnes’ prophecies. The first one I picked up was a little foreboding.”

She handed him the card and read:

  


**Afore sharpened amethysts and golden bite, blood shalle floweth free.**

**Arm thy chariot of comfort’s needs and h** **old fast in speed.**

**For ye shall find, aching for willow fyne, they be.**

**Hark! The flightless shalle soar once more.**

**There cometh Light to lead ye.**

  


  


Crowley felt like he had fallen into a frozen lake. Whatever the prophecy was referring to, he knew he wasn’t going to like it, not one bollocksing bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while, but major life events had me stumbling. In fact, they are not done f*cking me up yet! So I needed this therapeutic fluff and mild smuttiness. Hurrah for fanfics for keeping me sane!
> 
> Care to speculate about the that little bit of prophecy at the end? :D


	29. Caught Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of slavery.

Aziraphale had gotten better at riding a carriage the second time around. As it was necessary to be able to run back to the village. She had missed their friends. Horses terrified her less with Crowley’s soothing voice in her ears and his strong arms cradling her the whole way. And her clothes suffered less.

She had forgone dresses by her third day at the castle. The maids had indeed been scandalized by her request for breeches and a tunic but Aziraphale convinced them that it was all about practicality. Madame Tracey, the village seamstress was thrilled at the challenge. She had come to fit her for the promised five dresses but stayed to help the maids settle her into a hose, shirt and tunic.

“Trust me dears,” Madame Tracey winked at the maids. “I had many dealings with men before I came ‘round to this side of the Ridge.”

The ensemble sent to her had even Crowley cooing. There were body-tight leather waistcoats to replace her corset, lined in wool for warmth and comfort. Bright linen shirts came together with sensible hose. Her tunics were in varying shades of tan and beige. Madame Tracey had proposed to leave the garment off altogether but Crowley insisted there be something to cover her rear besides the pants.

_(“They are rather shapely, it seems a waste.”_

_“Shut it Tracey, no one is allowed to see those.”)_

When they re-entered the village, they were instantly accosted by the Them. Pepper had been ecstatic to see her outfit and told her she would save her milking money to take to Madame Tracey. Adam was ticking off the new games he invented for his friends, Brian showed off the rocks he found in the old caves and Wensley was carrying around the abacus his parents gifted him and proudly showed them how to use it.

Deirdre said she missed their break time chats but held little grudge at the matter. (“Wife of the Duke’s brother sound better than Shadwell’s baker, don’t you think?”) Newt, for all his skill in the kitchen was too easily distracted when engaged in simple conversation. Aziraphale made her a batch of her favorite scones to placate the woman and promised to do the same on their next visit.

When she got back to the apothecary, Crowley and Anathema were preparing tea. Newt was out on deliveries and the spent the time setting to rights the rumours floating about.

“I did not turn feral, dear girl,” the blonde huffed as Crowley laughed at her. “It’s not my fault they know little of basic sword fighting skills.”

“We are simple folk,” Anathema ceded. “Although what shocked me more was that _you_ do.”

“You already know that I’m familiar around a smithy, therefore I could easily convince you that I know a great deal about the creation of weaponry, and hopefully you can understand that one way or the other, I will know a thing or two about combat.”

“Can’t argue with logic,” Anathema laughed. “But the way those soldiers complain of the unfairness of it all,” she tutted.

“I’ve got a complaint or two about those woodland hijinks myself,” Crowley grumbled. And Aziraphale had to explain how General Furrow would pluck her from whatever she was doing (to the ire of a certain red-head) to take her and those dozen or so other soldiers into the wooded areas surrounding the fortifying cliffs for “initiation.”

Crowley found out it was a battle simulation between two groups: one comprised of the General and Aziraphale; and the other, the armed gaggle of trainees. _Blatant disregard for a subordinate’s safety_ , he had cried. Raphael had to keep him from pouncing on the General, who unhelpfully just laughed at his antics. The trainees, battered and bruised, were of the same mind but knew they stood little chance to taking back their dignity. Though, apparently, they’ve decided the mad woman parading around in men’s clothing was the true villain. The upside, according to the archer, was that most of the lustful looks had disappeared. They had been replaced by wary glances, which was easier to live with.

Sometime in through their third pot, in came an exhausted looking Newt.

“You appear a little worse for wear, dear boy,” she addressed him as he took his seat.

“I had a very interesting afternoon, if you’d like to hear,” Newt said, nibbling a biscuit. “Our gelding, Old Dick, had been spooked by a passing snake and bolted off. Thrown me and the cart over a ditch by the road. A nearby farmer came to help, and instead of offering to track down the gelding, they gave me this younger, sleeker mare instead. No charge.” Three pairs of eyebrows raised in unison.

He continued, amused at his friends’ reactions, “Rather, someone had bought the horse beforehand but said it was to be given to a young man whose cart crashes into said road’s bushes. The farmer told me he’d waited for three years and I was the first to fit that description,” he shrugged. Anathema groaned in a tone that significantly meant ‘prophecy gone right.’

“I’d say it’s still good luck,” Newt grinned. “I can do the deliveries a little faster now.”

An hour before sunset, Crowley and Aziraphale rode back to the castle. It had been thoroughly distracting to receive searing licks and teasing kisses. The hoof-beats were drowned away by Crowley’s panting and suggestive purrings. Her blood was still pounding in her veins when they entered the courtyard, a knock from the door indicating their arrival.

“I didn’t think this through,” the archer grimaced, leaning back to take steadying breaths. His hand was clutching the front of his breeches trying to flatten the bulge that appeared. It was one of those days Aziraphale was glad she did not sport the same appendage.

Giggling at the strained red-head, she positioned herself between his knees. “Would you need a little assistance, dearest?” She let her hands roam up his thighs, making her intentions clear. She was a novice when it came to the intimacies within the walls of their bedchamber but Crowley had yet to complain. The nights they spent in the castle, despite being but a handful, had been very informative. They took turns asking questions that were answered with or without words. She heard him gulp, and gave her a nod. She grinned, before she busied her mouth with a different task.

When they stepped out the carriage minutes later, it was to the hubbub of other carriages come to pay their respects to the Southern Duke. Most were supplies but one in particular was smaller than the others with a scarecrow of a servant boy taking down boxes from it.

The child looked as old as Adam and his friends, black hair unkempt and growing almost to his shoulder, parts matted with mud. Aziraphale longed to drag him to the nearest well and scrub him clean. She took in the skinny limbs and hollow cheeks and her next instinct was to plop him down next to Cook in the castle kitchens and between them fatten the boy up.

She watched in terror as a sudden gust of wind blew by, unbalancing the boy from his perch on the carriage roof. He tried to right himself, arms flailing, but his foot found no real anchor. Before he, or Aziraphale, could scream out his misfortune, Crowley shot forwards to catch the child.

They landed with a grunt and a groan. “That would have been a nasty fall,” the red-head huffed as he set the trembling boy down and rubbed at his backside.

Initial shock dissipating, Aziraphale made her way over to help calm the child. The poor thing was shaking and looked about ready to faint. “What you need,” she murmured to the boy, petting his hair and arms. “Is a good cup of tea and some biscuits.” None of the other carriage owners came forward to check on the servant boy so she asked a nearby guard to direct the carriage owner to the kitchens should they come looking.

Still reeling from his shock, the boy let them lead him into the castle kitchens to be handed over to the the Cook. Foregoing introductions, as the boy stuffed his hungry self with bread and soup, the couple promised to check back as soon as they’ve made their presence known to the Duke.

They made their way to Raphael’s study and made to knock on the door. But before they made contact, it was thrown open by a fuming Gabriel.

It felt like a nightmare to Aziraphale where time ground to a halt and there stood her old master, come to drag her back to her prison. But instead of the immaculate lord, she was faced with a maniacal looking man in rumpled robes of gray, and no purple in sight. Even his eyes were a duller shade of violet. Gone was the perfectly groomed head for his hair had grown wild and he was sporting a beard and mustache. He still bore himself in that confidently irritating manner but it looked far too forced. She had never seen him so unruly.

“What is taking him so-” the purple eyed man stopped as his gaze rested on Aziraphale. A mix of recognition and uncertainty writ his face. Crowley stepped forward blocking the blonde from the other’s obvious staring. She remembered to breath as Crowley urged her near. She thought she would never see the man again but she knew her luck had ran out. Gabriel looked confused indeed, but it would only be a matter of time before he understood that he had been played for a sucker by a bloody shirt. Her hair had grown longer and her feminine curves more openly showcased, but the man was smart, despite or perhaps due to him being a tyrant.

“Gabriel,” the Duke’s voice came from inside the room. Aziraphale could see Crowley’s slits widen, the honeyed irises bleeding out ‘til there were no whites left. “Calm down, no need to show me more. I did say that I’m content with the last sword I bought and frankly I hadn’t been able to use it very much. I’m sure you would find some other noble in need of fine weaponry.”

Neither Gabriel nor Crowley moved. They heard Raphael sigh and moved towards the door. “Anthony! You’re back! And Aziraphale? Oh, there you are!” he shoved the other man lightly to the side. “The General would be along shortly. In the meantime, why don’t you look over Lord Gabriel’s wares? He’s rather keen on selling them.”

The blonde kept a tight hold on Crowley’s arms as they entered the study. She wanted to run but didn’t know if her legs would hold her up, alone. The archer was watching her intently, a worried look in his eyes. She tried giving him a smile but her teeth ground together as she saw who else was in the room.

By the table of assorted knives and swords was Sandalphon, beady eyes also locked on her. His gaze held no doubt and he had that tiny smile he reserved before cracking his whip out. But the man was wise enough to keep still. He knew he’d wait for the others to clear before striking at her. She shuddered as she felt the man’s eyes rake over her body. She resisted the urge to vomit an thought. She could pretend to not know them and they would soon be off and she shall be safe. Except she knew they would tie her to their horse - not on it but running behind it.

Best to keep her head steady. If confrontation is the only option, so shall it be. She made to disentangle her fingers from Crowley’s shirt sleeve but the red-head crooked his arm to hold her in place. She looked up but found the archer frowning at Gabriel and his steward. She supposed the name ‘Gabriel’ triggered his memories. She remembered his reaction to her naked calves when they first met. He had also mentioned wanting to kill them. Well, she didn’t know if he would go ahead with his threat but at the moment she didn’t care as much. She saw how his posture angled to guard her from the dangerous guests. She relaxed a little more genuinely then, leaning into her lover’s sturdy frame.

Raphael, immune to the tension was looking over the table and was shaking his head. “Do you have any of the same quality as this?” he gestured to the sword at his belt. “I’m afraid these look a little less remarkable.”

“There are more in the carriage…” Gabriel said distractedly.

“I shall go see where the servant boy is, my lord,” Sandalphon called before making an exit, giving Aziraphale a last piercing look.

“Terribly sorry,” Gabriel started after clearing his throat and looking a little more like his usual self. “My blacksmith left me last spring. Ungrateful wretch. He still owe me rather a lot in debt. And my keep is suffering in the meanwhile.” The blonde felt her knees weaken. Gabriel did not turn from the Duke but she knew the statement was pointed towards her.

Raphael snorted. “I paid a fortune for the sword Gabriel, surely the man would have gotten a pretty penny from that with more left over for you. As to your keep, I know you were never in desperate need of funds. Why, I was not the only noble you’ve coddled.”

“Yessss,” Crowley agreed, finally breaking his silence. “From your tone one might say you were keen to keep the blacksmith for your own money-making schemes. Must he really do all your bidding? Perhaps it was right the man had broken free of your hold on him.”

The Duke frowned at his brother and was about to admonish him for his rude assumptions when their guest cried out.

“He is mine and he shan’t be free, unless I tire of him!” Gabriel spat, purple eyes cutting. “Only I have the right to say when they could leave.” He looked unhinged in his rage and made to march towards the blonde, finally tiring of the game. Crowley planted himself in front of her ready for what onslaught may come but Raphael jumped to restrain the advancing lord.

“From what I remember,” the Duke said in a placating manner, the details eluding him but the fire in Gabriel’s purple eyes was warning enough that a brawl would ensue if he let it. “The smiths have been in high demand recently. You can’t fault a man in wanting to find their fortune elsewhere.” He followed the man’s vindictive gaze at Aziraphale and frowned, he didn’t need to be told that Gabriel was now a threat. “And if I come across the blacksmith, I’d tell them to keep away. You shall never gain loyalty from servitude, my friend.”

“I don’t need to worry about loyalty when I have them in chains,” Gabriel tried shrugging off Raphael’s hand but it tightened further making him utter a pained curse.

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the Duke said lowly. “Such behavior is unbefitting of our patronage.”

Gabriel glared back but before he could utter another word, there came a ruckus from outside the door. A moment later, in stormed General Furrow with a struggling Sandalphon in his grasp.

“Now,” the General started as he shook Gabriel’s steward roughly and settled him on a chair, both hands clamped on his shoulders to keep him still. “I’ve found this fellow prodding the castle staff with questions. He could either be a spy, a thief, or a lost child who had disguised himself rather convincingly as a balding, aging ma-” he stopped as his eyes fell on the tableau within the room. Aziraphale was at a loss at what the General would make out of her, cowering behind Crowley, the two glowering red-heads and the maddened lord.

“Ah, it appears I’ve missed a very interesting story,” he pouted good-naturedly but his calm demeanour was offset by the wincing steward beneath him. “Then again I have my own. So, who wants to share their’s first?”

“Nothing special here, Alfie,” Raphael told the General. “Gabriel just wanted to sell us more of his blades, and we said no,” he steered the minor lord next to his steward.

“Alfie?” Crowley asked in a whisper, bringing Aziraphale closer as soon as Gabriel was pulled away.

“General Furrow’s Christian name is Alfred,” she whispered back, a lilt in her voice, as she tried to keep her giggles in check. Her fears dissipating for the time being.

“How disappointing,” they heard the General say. “Mine’s a little more imaginative. I heard him asking for someone with scars that look like chains or scales. Said he had a message for them. He had cornered a few of the maids, leering over them like a creep!” he tutted. “Before I could pull him away the maids admitted that only the Lady Crowley had those kinds of marks.” The General’s hard stare flicked briefly towards the blonde.

The maids had seen her scars as they dressed her that first night of the ball and the clothes fitting after. They balked at the sight but made no more comment. She herself had not given her legs attention and offered no explanation. Perhaps an unwise choice, but she was only comfortable sharing them with Crowley. And Madame Tracey, who wordlessly showed her her own marks from her past life over a cup of tea after the maids had gone. She felt acute pain - the mingling of her memories with the unspoken ones of the older woman. They held each other after that. It was like sharing a body, but aside from fear, she was also fed strength and, she in turn, shared her optimism for a brighter future.

A future that she may actually see. Blue eyes landed on the three different beings that was keeping her out of reach from Gabriel’s malicious hands.

“I do have those scars, yes,” she told the room. She had been afraid to fight back because she knew she had nowhere to go. But Crowley, the Duke and the General had carved her a place for her. She was starting to believe she can fight back. “What, pray tell, is the message?”

Gabriel looked ready to spit in her face, but Sandalphon just watched her. _Creepy indeed_ , she shuddered.

“Scars meant wounds, and wounds meant pain,” the General said in a brooding voice. “And I am not a fan of pain. But I am a fan of justice,” his voice turned cold.

“Ha!” Gabriel barked. “Justice! Yes! I had to sell my horses and my robes for her little stunt. And that assassin I sent to collect her, robbed me!”

Raphael choked, finally understanding who and for the argument was about. Despite the heaviness of the moment, he couldn’t help rounding on Aziraphale, “You mean to tell me you’re a bloody blacksmith and I had to content myself with half-baked swords for the trainees?”

“You never asked, my Lord,” she replied sheepishly.

“Oh no you don’t!” Raphael wagged a finger her way. “That cutesy act won’t work on me the way it does my brother ( _Oi!_ ) And since you, and that old fart ( _Me?_ ) broke most of the weapons, I’m enacting my own justice and sentencing you to the forge starting tomorrow morning.”

“We still need to decide on what to do with these two, though,” General Furrow reminded him keeping a watchful eye on their captives.

“I’m not a fan of pain, myself,” Crowley stepped forward to stand abreast with the other two, he looked calm and disinterested, but the waves of pure hate pouring off him had a nearly physical quality to it. “But I saw those scars and I promised a poisoned arrow to whoever gave them to her,” his serpentine eyes flicked from the wincing Gabriel to the frozen Sandalphon.

“Crowley…” the blonde whispered, too soft to be heard but the archer sighed in acknowledgement.

“But, of course,” he said tightly. “My angel is all forgiving and I’m sure she wants you two gone instead of dead.”

She flashed a grateful smile at her beloved. Oh, she reviled her scars, the ones seen and hidden within herself, but with every passing day, she felt able to live with them. And little by little, was able to let go of her hate, but unfortunately not fear, of Gabriel and his steward. It was greatly helped with Crowley’s full acceptance of who she was and she had never been happier to be anyone but her. How could she fully hate them when it was their atrocious selves that had her running and stumbling into Crowley’s arms.

“I’m a little curious about those scars, though,” she heard the General say, looming closer to Sandalphon.

“No,” Crowley remarked, unmoving in his stance but coiled to strike, keeping his unblinking stare at the steward. His tone made Raphael recoil from him and gave the General pause. “Best you don’t see them at all. Because you have far less restraint than I do and I am having very little trouble as is from making good on my promise.”

“We’ll take our things and take ourselves out,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth.

* * *

A sizeable bottle of rum took residence in the middle of the Duke’s desk, the contents of which were studiously being drained. The men seated around the table were not desperate to get drunk, but they were of the same mind of wanting hard liquor chip away the day’s stress. Aziraphale had scurried of to the kitchens, remembering the boy from earlier that afternoon. But Crowley had noticed her twitching fingers and knew she’d come out with a batch of scones, biscuits or a large cake by the time she returned.

“What was that all about, then?” Raphael asked as he slumped over the table, head coming to rest on a propped arm.

“The what?” came the other red-head’s answer.

“The whole Gabriel scenario.” It took them half the bottle to come to the point.

“I’d like a little enlightenment myself,” the General added, a little wary of Crowley. He hadn’t fully believed Luke’s charges of heartless mercenary, but he’d seen a little part of that persona but an hour ago.

“Don’t know,” Crowley slurped his drink.

“You’re supposed to know,” Raphael frowned. “Aren’t you her husband?”

Crowley hummed, watching the liquid in his mug glisten in the brightening candlelight. “Her history before we met is still a mystery. What happened before Gabriel is your story,” he pointed at the General. “And what happened after is mine. And I would rather not invite Gabriel back to question him. We can always ask Aziraphale but she doesn’t like talking about her time with that madman, so I don’t push. Besides…” Crowley shook his head and pushed his mug away. He wanted to be somewhat sober just in case Aziraphale needed a comforting ear by the end of the night.

“What?” Raphael pushed, after Crowley kept silent for far longer than he should.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the whole husband thing,” he finally let himself say. “We’re not really married yet.”

“Hold on!” called the General. “So, what was all the kissing about?”

“Hey, that was a one time thing. At least in front of a proper audience.” Crowley snorted, then turned serious again as he took in General Furrow’s reddening face. “I’ve asked for her hand and she said yes, and I wanted your help with the ceremony,” he addressed the later part to Raphael.

“Of course I will,” his brother said, waving for the General to sit back down. “But why just now?”

“We’ve meet just a few weeks before. She saved me twice from being killed, and we helped each other cross the border. We thought we ought to travel as a married couple to lessen suspicions.”

“Well I’m growing more suspicious of you with every word that comes out your mouth. I’m not giving my blessing for this union until you’ve explained yourself properly,” the General fumed.

“She’s not your daughter,” he countered. “We don’t really need your blessing, _Alfie_ ,” he smirked.

“Can we get on with the story?” Raphael interjected.

“We shared a bed and a home, but just as friends. I may look like one but I am not a demon,” he pushed. He may not need the General’s blessing but the man was important to his angel, and he knew he could be trusted to protect her in the event he can’t. “You can always ask her to verify that. She can’t help but be honest when surprised.”

“But I remember Gabriel’s blacksmith was a man,” Raphael barreled on before the General could strike again.

“All I know is, her parents disguised her as a boy when they left their old keep. A loaded bit of trauma there.” The General grunted at that but said nothing else. “Been telling herself that it was her fault they were sent packing. And she had to watch her father dragged around by a horse, bleeding and screaming.”

“I shouldn’t have gone away,” he heard the General mumble.

“She won’t let you take the blame,” he told him. “Anyway, she started going by the name of Ash, after that. That was who you saw. I met her as Ash, too. She scared off Hastur and made Beel fall in love with her.”

“Beel? The Hunter Guild’s pixie prince?” Raphael gaped.

“I know!” Crowley laughed. “She was the assassin Gabriel hired, by the way, and the one who took my old bow from me.”

“And the scars?” the General asked, calmed by guilt.

Crowley frowned. “They did look like scales. Skin burned by red-hot chains wound round her calves. It looked…painful,” he finished with a grimace, the word a clear understatement.

“I’m sure that wasn’t the only torture she had to face,” the General scowled. “I didn’t even get to punch the both of them properly. Why did you ever let them leave?”

“Because that was what she wanted,” Crowley said with finality.

“That’s it then,” the General bumped his mug on the red-head’s knee. “You are whipped,” he smirked.

Their laughter only died down when there came a knocking at the study door.

“Sire?” It was the Cook, hands wringing her apron in agitation. “Has m’lady come back?”

“I thought she went to you?” Crowley asked, the news like a cold bucket of water down his head.

“She ‘as Sire, but she’d gone and ran aft the wee lad and there be none ‘as since her since.”

“But why did the boy run off?”

“There’s be this man with a gold tooth came for ‘im,” the woman recalled. “Took out ‘is whip, he ‘as. Can’t be blaming the lad. I’ve been afread meself.”

“That’s the stocky steward,” the General stood.

“The boy must have come with them. And Aziraphale’s going to try and bring him back,” Raphael moaned. “But she’ll be fine I’m sure.”

Crowley groaned. “But they’ve got those horses and she’s got this tendency to literally freeze up when she hears hoof-beats.”

“Well, what are we doing here then?” the General ran out the door. “Men! Ready a search party! Quickly!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have been avoiding this chapter....
> 
> Sorry about that. It suddenly coincided with a terribly maddening life event. And I triggered myself. I do admire Aziraphale's patience and am trying to channel Crowley's self restraint.
> 
> Oh, and the chapter may have been a little longer than usual. I do not know how to shut up. Forgive me.


	30. Break Through the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of physical abuse to child and woman, injuries, lots of blood, allusions to flogging with bladed tips, GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE
> 
> I only put in two short paragraphs to describe the wounds but put them in between *** just in case you'd like to skip that. Just know there's major whump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE. Mentions of physical abuse to a child and a woman, injuries, lots of blood, lots of slash marks.
> 
> I shuddered at the image my own mind gave me, so I kept the descriptions brief. I'm not a fan of blood, really, so why this fic is turning out the way it is is pure ineffability.

Tree trunks loomed overhead, the canopy too dark to make out the leaves or the sky. She and the boy took one more step forward. She could still hear Gabriel’s screams and Sandalphon’s laughter. She tightened her hold on her charge, wishing she could also will the memory away from the boy’s mind. She felt him twitch from the contact and winced herself. She had his arm over her shoulders, one hand firm on his wrist, the other, sitting gingerly at the small of his back.

“We’re almost there,” she breathed, far too exhausted to hide the tremble in her voice. Every step was agony, her clothes clinging to her bloody arms, back, and legs. She had taken off her tunic, shoving it into the boy’s hands and urging him to use it to staunch the his wounds. She wished she could treat him properly but they needed to put distance between them and and the other pair. She was lucky she had gotten acquainted with those parts of the woods recently, taking a hidden, yet longer path to the village. She flinched as the boy whimpered. _Not lucky enough_ , she chastised herself. She felt him cling closer, weeping into her chest. They were too weak to call for help, and there were too far from the nearest cottage. But she hoped. That was all she could do. Hope that someone would find them before it was too late.

She wanted to cry as well, but her tears wouldn’t come. She felt death tread closer. _Not yet_ , a voice in her head murmured. _Buck up for just a little while longer_. The trees began thinning and she felt her heart thud back to life. They made it to the side of the road, collapsing as the last dredges of will wilted away.

The last thing Aziraphale saw, before succumbing to the black void pulling her in, was a bright streak of light shooting towards them.

* * *

“Anathema! She’s not responding!” Crowley screamed, tears flowing unnoticed down his face.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” she called back, reins locked in white-knuckled grips as she steered horse and cart towards the sleepy village.

“There are smelling salts in the bag!” Newt called out, hanging on to the side of the cart. The servant boy wedged in between his legs, swathed in blankets to help make the bumpy ride as comfortable as possible.

Aziraphale had been bundled off as well, but they had to strap her on a hastily broken off plank from the cart as her injuries had been too numerous and they were afraid to jostle her too much. The blonde had went in and out of consciousness as they tied her to the cart’s floor, enough to ask if the boy was with them. Crowley had whispered assurances in her ear. That is, until she’d gone silent, too still and too pale that he feared she had stopped breathing.

Crowley snatched the leather satchel tied beside the front bench by Anathema’s hip, breaking the straps in his desperation. He found the tiny brown bottle half filled with white powder and held it to Aziraphale’s nose. Crowley held his breath, gripping his side of the cart enough to bend the wood. It was as if time stopped until the blonde’s eyelids fluttered. He shoved the bottle into a pocket and began urging the blonde back to wakefulness.

The ride from the roadside back to the apothecary took less than eight minutes but the whole rescue operation took longer than twenty. None of the rescuers took a proper breath until they had both woman and child under inspection.

***

The boy had most of his injuries on his chest and arms where he must have tried to cover himself from his attacker. The wounds were thin scratches but they were too many and too close together that some of his skin were flayed off. His breathing evened out thanks to the willow bark tea Newt fed him during those torturous minutes until they reached the shop and they could tend to him.

Aziraphale had the same scratches on her back, arms and legs but interspersed with deeper claw marks. One particular swipe gouged out a large chunk of her upper left arm. Her scalp showed signs of clumps of hair being pulled out, but only the few that escaped her braid. Crowley was silent but pale as a sheet as he helped Anathema clean her and apply the necessary dressings.

***

The castle physician had ran in half an hour after Newt rushed off to the castle to tell the Duke what happened. The search party had only just arrived with Sandalphon and Gabriel in tow and the General ordered the physician to drop his examination of the two men to follow Newt back to the village.

He and Anathema parried off whatever methods they could use to start and expedite the blonde’s healing. It was a long process where even the most tender touches had Aziraphale shrieking in agony. All three wore harrowed looks when at last they left her to rest.

The Duke and the General met them at the front of the shop, a filled pot of tea between them, but it had turned too cold to drink.

“Is - “ General Furrow started, voice raspy from hours of disuse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Will she be alright?”

“Yes,” the physician answered. “She’s stable. Breathing properly but definitely still in pain. We set her down by the fireplace to keep her warm. We’ll check on her again later to regulate the room’s temperature.”

Newt came out from the kitchen with Dierdre Young and Madame Tracey bearing trays of foods and drinks for them all. The women had busily kept kept a consistent pot of water boiling at the stove and had tended to the young servant boy as Newt rushed about.

“Best we can do now is wait,” Madame Tracey gave them all a small smile, but there was no warmth in her tone, no reassuring gleam in her eyes. She had seen the carriage trundle down the street and had helped bring the patients into the shop. She brought the fire to life as the injuries were slowly revealed. She excused herself to call Dierdre for extra hands in kitchen, where help would assuredly be needed. She needn’t mention her throwing up in the alley just beside the apothecary’s.

Anathema had also been rattled from the experience, but she was confident with their combined efforts and didn’t need reassurance. Her concern was directed at Crowley. He was lilting ever so slightly towards the room they’ve already spent hours in.

The man had said not one word to anyone else besides his lover and even those were murmured, the words unrecognizable. As if his tongue would move only for her and his language only for her to understand. His eyes were blank and dead. As though he saw naught but the moment his gaze lock with hers once more, ready to wait eternities if need be. His face and manner showed no sign of recognition or emotion. As if he had put on a mask, to be discarded when only after she explicitly request it. His pulse was weak and barely there. As if he was on death’s door, but he was there only to watch it intently. Not knowing which would hurt more - meeting her presence as she requested to enter or hearing her voice already beyond it. But there he would stay, only until he could bring her home to him after blocking her path or fishing her from beyond the veil. His heart would only beat properly alongside his lover’s.

Anathema felt Newt’s firm grip on her waist, a silent plea for her to return to reality herself. She loathed to loosen her hold on the red-head’s arm. But another silent entreaty from her partner told her she needn’t worry. She pushed away the troubling thoughts of what she would feel if it was Newt laying in the next room.

Raphael watched Crowley as well. Ignoring his rations, he took a steaming bowl of soup and placed it in brother’s hands which had felt cold and stiff. “You must eat or drink something,” he urged the other. There was no response. “You would be unfit to care for her if you won’t take care of your own needs.” Silence greeted him. “Aziraphale would want you to…” he added in an undertone. The named had stirred Crowley into movement, gripping the bowl and slowly bringing it to his lips then down, forcing sips in between. It looked unnatural, but it was progress.

“The captives are still unconscious, so we can’t ask them what happened yet,” General Furrow confessed to the others in the room. “That Gabriel bloke looked bruised all over. There were boot marks on his clothes. He’d been kicked in the chest and sides, as far as we could tell. The steward’s clothing on the other hand had blood splatters all over. It was clear none of it were his,” the General scowled. “His only injury was a blow to the head.”

“The little boy promised to testify in the morning,” Dierdre announced. “He was looking better when I went to check on him in the spare room. Still tired to the bone but seemed a little less peaky. He downed the warm milk I gave him.”

“At least we have that to look forward to in the morning. Until then, we should all probably get a little sleep before sunrise,” Raphael intoned, and the general scuffle to clear the table signaled the others’ agreement. The Duke noticed Crowley’s empty bowl, and vacated seat, but made no comment.

The physician peered into the makeshift ward before he left. He announced that Crowley was taking vigil and looked as if he wouldn’t be leaving Aziraphale’s side for a while. No one contested the fact. Anathema did the same before retiring to bed and found the red-head stoking the fire. There was awareness in his movements, but it all looked mechanical. He seemed lost but she knew it was best to let him be for the moment.

* * *

Prayers were meant for the weak, Crowley heard someone say once. _I’d humbly confess I am weak if_ _Someone_ _would grant me a miracle right now_ , Crowley thought to himself. He’s heard the door open and close twice but ignored it both times. All he needed to hear was indisputable news that Aziraphale would get better. Her current state was a far cry from that. _He_ might also not make the morning if he sees no improvement.

He looked her over once more. He had always loved how firelight made her glow, but currently, he’d rather the fire was gone. He couldn’t feel her pain, but he could see her suffering. The frown never left her face. She would take stuttering breaths, groaning or whimpering in intervals.

In the middle of his mooning, he heard a tapping at the window. He would have ignored it, had he not seen the flash of light through the wooden slats. Slowly he stood and made his way to open it. The light dimmed and in flew his white owl.

It landed on his shoulder and gave his ear an affectionate nibble.

“You think she’ll make it, too?” he rasped. He’d forgotten the last time he took a drink, and the screaming they did as they rode towards the village certainly left its mark. “Thank you, by the way,” he told the animal as he closed the window and made to sit beside Aziraphale once more.

As the search party assembled, Crowley, instead of taking part, took a horse and rode back towards the village. He felt a sense of certainty that he’ll be more lucky searching with Anathema than the soldiers. The shop had just closed but her saw her just beyond the glass, sweeping the floor. He jumped from the horse and began pounding on the door. “It’s happening tonight,” he had said but she was already moving. The panicked look he wore was enough for her to understand. Thankfully, Anathema had been every bit as prepared as she could ever be. She called for Newt and they were soon loading up the cart. As soon as they jumped on, the owl had swooped in, flared, almost blinding them and set off. Anathema, in a moment of clarity following after it.

The owl had now come back, hopping down to settle beside the blonde’s heavily bandaged left arm. It hooted dejectedly as it march around her head to the other side.

“She’s a mess, true,” the words were coming out from him freely now. He wanted to question why he would rather talk to the animal than any of the humans who would surely have given him a ready ear and pat on the back, but he knew it wouldn’t be the same. “But I trust she’ll come back,” he found it in himself to smile for a fraction of a second, shocked to find he believed his own words.

The owl looked at him and puffed out its chest, as if to say ‘of course she will.’ It walked back to her left side and gave him a warning look before reverting into its white, misty form. But unlike before, there was a definite outline where Crowley could trace its wingtips and its rounded body. It was covered in a radiance that was softer than when it had led them through the woods. It leaped over the blonde’s arm and landed on her chest. Crowley cried out, arms shooting forwards to pull it back where it couldn’t agitate the blonde’s injuries.

His hands passed through glowing air and the bird tittered at him.

“Right,” he stared at his hands then brought it up to scrub his face. “Should have know you knew what you were doing,” he mumbled. To be fair, he still didn’t know how the animal’s magic worked. The owl hooted in acknowledgement then turned its attention back on Aziraphale. It walked gingerly to plop down above her heart. It spread its wings and began flapping them slowly.

Tendrils of white light shot out from the movement and began weaving their way around the blonde’s body. They sank into the creases between the bandages and out of sight. Crowley watched and felt overwhelming relief as he saw the furrowed brows began to relax and her breathing evening out.

Sensing the change, the owl dug its phantom claws into the blonde’s chest. Blue ribbons of light emerged from the contact and the owl directed them in the same process. When the blue light faded, the owl lifted itself off her and retreated to a spot by the fireplace.

Crowley chanced a quick kiss to the blonde’s forehead, gratified that her face showed none of its previous misery. “I’ll nick some bread and water from the kitchen,” he addressed the bird. “Least I could do for... well, everything, I guess.” The bird fluffled its feathers and he chuckled at its familiar show of excitement for nibbles.

For the first time that night, he was able to walk out the room without the need to rush back in. He felt lighter, indirectly healed as he witnessed his love’s recuperation. He knew she wasn’t fully recovered. Likely, the wounds would still bleed. But it was a start. He gathered a variety of loaves for himself and the owl and made himself a large pot of tea. When he reentered the room, the animal was making a nest from an extra blanket, coiling it around its body. He sat beside it and feeding it, and himself, in companionable silence.

“We seemed to have forgotten to name you,” he said after they’ve done away with their vittles. “Don’t know why we haven’t thought of it. But it seems impersonal to keep calling you just ‘owl.’” The bird clucked in agreement. “Have any suggestions?”

Round blue eyes stared at him and in the next moment the animal gleamed a brilliant white.

“Bugger, that was bright,” Crowley hissed as he blinked away the spots in his vision. “So… Bright?” There was a twittered negative. “But along those lines, yeah?” It gave a soft coo. Crowley began listing off words related to ‘bright’ but shine, glow and glitter only earned him pecks on his arm.

“Light,” came a soft whisper. Crowley’s head snapped to its source. Aziraphale had turned her head to watch them with a strained but amused impression. The red-head crawled his way to her side in less than a second.

“Aziraphale…” he breathed, hand hovering over her cheek, unwilling to touch lest the contact break her.

“Yes, my dear?” she replied with sympathetic eyes. “I am awake, and alive, as you can clearly see,” she continued when Crowley only gaped above her.

“Yeah…” his voice broke but he gave it no mind. All his attention was on the blonde. “You are.”

The owl marched closer and nuzzled her face when Crowley couldn’t.

“It is wonderful to see you as well,” she chuckled lightly, wincing just a tad. “Ah. I’m alright,” she reassured the red-head. “Mended but still covered in cracks,” she mused. “I believe I have to thank both of you for that.”

“Don’t look at me, angel. I was a rubbish help,” he huffed out. “The owl…er, Light, you say?” the bird preened at the name. “Yes, there we go. Light,” he repeated. “Did more in fifteen minutes than what us humans did in the last six hours.

“Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be here without your help.” Crowley opened his mouth to argue that she was there because he wasn’t fast enough to notice she had gotten herself into trouble, but the blonde carried on. “Is the snake here as well?”

Crowley sighed. He’d leave the heavier topics for the morning, so he answered, “No, I haven’t seen it. _Shit,_ ” he suddenly groaned. “I’m getting a tongue-lashing… er, hissing?… whatever it’s called. It would definitely be mad that I let you get like this. And the mutt,” he added in afterthought.

“Nonesense, my dear. I’m sure that won’t happen,” promised the blonde. The owl however was bobbing in full understanding.

“We’ll deal with that when we get there,” he concluded. “You on the other hand, should go back to sleep,” he groused as he noticed her drooping lids.

“I must, mustn't I?” the blonde smiled, letting out a little yawn and a grimace as she wriggled beneath the blankets. “You promise to sleep as well, Crowley?”

“If it’ll keep you from worrying, then yes,” he smiled back, watching her give him the tiniest of nods despite her eyes closing of their own accord. He added a few more logs into the hearth and made his own nest of blankets by the owl. They’ll talk properly in the morning and find out the truth. Perhaps then he could tempt his angel to finally allow him to follow through on his promise. No one hurts what was in his care… not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the child had to get hurt, too. My original plot note only had Aziraphale in a makeshift stretcher. What control I thought I had in this fic is slipping through my fingers. But it's still moving in the right direction at least.
> 
> Can you please help me identify other trigger warnings I forgot to add in the notes? Comment them below. Thank you!


	31. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of blood, wounds, slavery/slave trade, maltreatment, suffering, just general suffering and whump, but those that happened in the past.
> 
> Dialogue heavy because we'll be learning what happened in the woods.

Crowley woke to incessant hissing and discomfiting growls. But they came from far off, nowhere near his bed where he expected them to be. Curious, he pried open his still heavily lidded eyes. From what he could see through the window slats, it was still early morning. He groaned and turned to check on Aziraphale, but the blonde was not in her spot by the fire.

He jumped to his feet, tossing his blankets aside and earning him a grouchy hoot from a startled Light. He gave the owl a quick apology before stomping out to the front of the shop where he could hear his angel’s voice. She was arguing with the snake and the snake-burdened wolf.

“I can rest here as well as I can rest by the fire,” she tried placating them.

“And who gave you permission to get out of bed?” Crowley growled. The wolf obligingly stepped away to give him more room to chastise the blonde. He was happy she was well enough to stand and walk around, but she still sported a sickly pallor that heightened his anxieties.

“No one,” Anathema said from behind him. She was carrying another pot of tea to take to the table with a plate of biscuits. “I found her in the kitchen early this morning trying to bake bread.”

“I did say I am feeling better, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Yes…” Anathema sat the pot on the table slowly, but looking as if she wanted to slam the whole tray. “Better enough that I had to change your bandages twice because you’ve moved far too much and you’ve started bleeding again.”

The blonde blushed in embarrassment and hung her head. “I just wanted to thank everyone properly with something.”

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, dropping to his knees and taking her hands in his. “The only way you can thank all of us is for you to come back to full health.” A woof and a hiss sounded beside him. The animals were giving the blonde pointed looks in the same manner as Anathema’s.

“And no matter how much you say you’re fine,” the apothecary went on. “I know you’re still not. You haven’t even taken a bite of your breakfast and it’s been ten minutes since I placed it in front of you.”

“I’m just savoring the tea,” she gave them a small smile. The snake bumped Crowley’s shoulder, asking permission. He offered his arm and it slithered over. Anchoring itself around Crowley’s body, it then inched closer to the blond. The added height had it rearing more comfortably at eye-level with her, which made its disbelieving look a lot more convincing. Aziraphale looked back with a pout. “This all hardly seems necessary when I - “

Her next words were cut off when the snake used its tail to gently prod her arm, just a bit above her elbow. She couldn’t help but let out a whimper. Crowley tutted at her stubbornness.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Anathema tutted, pouring tea for herself and Crowley.

“I’ve wouldn’t have survived this long if I wasn’t,” she murmured. The snake, this time, used its head to snuggle against her throat before retreating to Crowley’s own.

“But you’re not alone this time,”he murmured back. “You could ask for help now.”

“Alright,” the blonde finally assented. Giving them all a shy smile, she finally started on the broth Anathema had brought her. She wasn’t able to finish the bowl, but it was progress and it pacified the others, letting them settle into less strained conversation.

“Would you introduce me to your friend?” Anathema asked at one point, gesturing to the snake. She explained that she found it hissing at Aziraphale as the blonde was rummaging around the kitchen. She confessed she could have screamed but it was getting a piggyback ride from Shadow and thought it best to let things play out.

“It doesn’t have a name yet,” Crowley mused. “I suppose we’ll call it Dark,” he supplied after a minute, earning him a shocked yet not disapproving look from the snake. “It’s friends with the owl and since we called that one Light, Dark seemed like it would fit,” he shrugged embarrassed, but Aziraphale gave him an indulgent smile.

an indulgent smile.

“Its an honor to meet you,” Anathema greeted the snake, as any intelligent witch would. But, she turned to Crowley, “As fascinating as all this is, maybe Dark and Shadow could stay by the fireplace when the boy comes down from his room later on.” She waited for an affirmative sign from both animals, then continued. “He promised to recount your adventures from last night, and since it looks like you’re feeling better, Aziraphale, we’d love to hear your story, too. Just as soon as the Duke and General come around. They’d be here soon, I’m certain.”

Halfway through the meal, Newt appeared with the scrawny boy in tow. The wolf and snake had already relocated themselves, content in the knowledge that Aziraphale was still able to eat. The child looked shifty, as anyone would in a room full of strangers. But the moment his eyes alighted on the blonde’s, he jumped and ran towards her. He looked ready to jump into her lap and stay there. But in the same speed as the day before, Crowley rose from his seat and caught the speeding body, sweeping him up in one swift motion then pinned him to his side where he settled him like a chimp hanging on a tree.

“Whoa, kid,” the red-head wheedled, tone soft and amused at the shock on the child’s face. “ You’re going a little too fast. I know she’d love a hug, but she hasn’t healed as well as you.”

The boy blinked up at him. Finally, there came the spark of recognition and with a tiny nod of understanding, Crowley lowered him to the ground. He watched him shuffle forwards, eyes roaming Aziraphale’s body, inspecting the worse of the wounds from the night before. He gulped at the blood tainted bandages of her left arm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes watering.

“What ever for?” The blonde smiled at him.

“Getting you in trouble.”

“I’d much rather say I got myself in trouble.”

“You saved me.”

“Well then, ought you to say ‘thank you’ instead of ‘sorry,’ hmm?” Aziraphale angled herself to coax the boy to cuddle into her right side.

“Thank you,” he whispered wetly into her shoulder. He had spent who knows how long in that same position the night before. But in that moment, they both breathed in the knowledge that they were finally safe.

“Right,” she patted his hip lightly when she felt the sobbing subside. “You’ve forgotten to tell us your name yesterday, and we’d rather not keep calling you ‘boy’ from here on out.”

“I’m Warlock,” he said as Crowley sat him down in his own seat and slid the plate of biscuits closer.

The adults talked over him about petty problems as they let him eat and familiarize himself with his surroundings. In the middle of Crowley’s rant about the vines creeping up the Old Mill’s walls, there came a knocking on the closed off apothecary door. Newt went to open it and ushered in the haggard-looking Duke and General.

There came a frenzied scuttle to find more chairs and a larger table then came the greetings.

“At least you lot look more rested than we are,” the General had slumped in his chair, letting his head fall on his arms on the table’s surface.

“Something happened?” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up.

“We’ll get to that later,” Raphael waved off the question. “We’ve done all we could, and to be honest, I’d rather forget about the ordeal for a while.” A concurring groan sounded from the General. “So, who do we have here?”

Warlock shifted in his seat between Aziraphale and Crowley as the Duke addressed him.

“This is Warlock,” Crowley said, ruffling the boy’s hair. It earned him a glare but the fidgeting eased.

“He saved me last night,” Aziraphale piped up. The boy’s head whipped around to stare at her incredulously.

“No, it’s the other way around. We just talked about it.”

“Oh, yes. Must have forgotten,” she wrinkled her nose, the boy rolled his eyes.

“You’re like my mom when she forgets things,” he sighed. “I miss her.”

“Is he back at Gabriel’s?”

“No,” he said quietly and with a little more coaxing, they got him to tell them how he and his mother had been separated from their camp of travelling merchants. Somehow, he was captured and sold off, landing him into Gabriel’s clutches. He was fed sparingly to keep him from running away but the day before, he had gotten proper rest and had enough food to get his legs going.

“But they had horses. So I guess I didn’t think my plan through,” he added meekly. “And I got myself lost in the woods. I think I just circled back and they caught me. The steward was already flogging me when you came along,” he looked up at Aziraphale as her eyes darkened at the memory. “His favorite was the bronze-handled one. It got a lot of sharp bits on the ends. Took swipes at my chest because I wouldn’t kneel and kept backing myself into tree trunks.”

“I ran to cover him and the flogger hit my back, instead,” the blonde told them after a pause, her voice hollow. “Sandalphon took out his knuckle braces as I tried to push Warlock aside. They had claws on them. Thankfully he only got one good swipe and only my left arm took most of the damage.”

“And you didn’t think to use a weapon against him?” Anathema tutted.

“I took out my dagger when I first saw them, but I had to fend Gabriel off. He was as crazed as the steward when he saw me and was stronger than he looked. I was too concerned about reaching Warlock that he was able to wrestle the blade from my hand. He didn’t really want me hurt, just overpowered. I was sure he’d have put me back to work if they caught me. When I ran over to shield Warlock, he cried out to Sandalphon not hurt me. But… he didn’t stop,” she whispered, arm tightening around the boy beside her.

The quiet that settled around the table was a mix of seething anger, regret, sympathy, and reassurance.

Aziraphale let out a great breath. “Anyway, Gabriel tried pulling him off us, so the steward turned to him instead. Their scuffle brought us a little distraction. We found a fallen branch and picked it up the same moment Sandalphon had hit Gabriel in the face. We didn’t check if he was still conscious as I swung the branch towards the steward’s head. The wood snapped in half and we watched him fall to the ground. It was enough for our escape. Thankfully, I got fully acquainted with the surrounding woods the last few days. We ran out to find the nearest road and there you found us,” she said the last bit cheerily, but the others didn’t smile.

“Now we know what happened before,” Raphael grimaced. “And we came here during the healing, but I want to know how neither of you are bed-ridden this morning.”

“A spirit came into my room last night. They took away the blood and the scratches and everything else that hurt,” Warlock whispered into Crowley’s ear but everyone else heard it all the same.

“A spirit?” the General asked, finally lifting his head up. He’d had very little to say during Aziraphale’s tale but from the way his knuckles had turned white, Crowley was sure he was far from indifferent. His own emotions were purely murderous at that point but revenge meant having to leave his angel and that was one thing he’d rather not do for the moment.

“Light must have given him a visit,” Aziraphale contemplated. “It’s this darling owl we met before we crossed the border. We’ve named it Light and it’s not a normal animal, by all accounts. It’s healed most of my own injuries last night,” she clarified to the shop’s occupants.

There came another knock at the door before the others could ask further. On the other side of the door were Madame Tracey, Deirdre and Adam. All three were dragging along baskets of food with them. Warlock leaned forward, seeking out the other boy’s presence.

“Go on,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’m sure you’re terribly bored with us older people. Adam there has three other friends and I’m sure if you ask nicely, he’d introduce you to them.” The boy nodded and walked over to the newcomers.

“Hello there,” Deirdre greeted him. “You’re looking better and already walking about. Would you like to meet Adam? He’s my son and I’m sure you’d rather talk to him than us.” She pushed the other boy forwards.

“Hi,” Warlock said, shoulders hunched and gaze anywhere but at Adam’s.”I’m Warlock.”

“Wicked name,” Adam grinned.

Warlock made a face. “The others at our old camp said it means I’m not normal like them.”

“My friend Pepper says ‘normal’ is boring and I think they’re right. Nothing exciting happens to normal people.”

“I think I’m done with all that exciting stuff,” he looked over at Aziraphale and her bandages.

“Not even walking into caves to look for diamonds?” Adam whispered, eyes flicking warily to his mother who was occupied with helping Anathema set their lunches on the table. “We’re planning on going there this afternoon. Just don’t tell my mum or she would never let us go.”

“Are you sure you’ll find some?” Warlock tried to keep the excitement from showing, but it was a losing battle. “It’s just that I’ve only heard of diamonds and never seen one.”

“Only one way to find out,” Adam winked. He ran up to his mother and asked in a loud enough voice for Warlock to hear, “Mom, can Warlock come with us to have lunch and play in the fields today?”

Deirdre was sceptical but Raphael said there’s nothing wrong with letting the boy meet the other children. Anathema insisted on inspecting his wounds - which were left with barely visible lines and no bruising whatsoever - before she agreed. Crowley had Adam promising to keep away from trouble. The last missive was from Aziraphale, who gave Warlock’s hand a gentle squeeze and bid him “have fun.” The two boys had soon skittered off after that.

Shadow ventured out during lunch, lured by the smell of food, the snake and owl on its back. They caused quite a commotion at first, and Crowley had to reassure the unacquainted among the party. The bird and the wolf were easily accepted but it took the snake a whole demonstration of coiling atop Crowley’s lap with it’s head stretched out to rest on Aziraphale’s thigh, unable as it was to drape itself around the blonde’s shoulders. It had even permitted Madame Tracey to pet it.

“So,” the general started. “You call that Light and the other Dark,” he pointed first to the bird Aziraphale had been feeding biscuits beside its own cup of tea, to the snake whose tail was flicking rhythmically to annoyingly swat at Crowley’s chin. “And the mutt as Shadow.”

“Now that you mention it,” Aziraphale pondered. “It is rather peculiar but I’ve named Shadow long before we’ve met the other two. Coincidence perhaps?”

“Light and Dark,” Raphael muttered. “Light and Dark, Light and Dark…” he repeated. “Where have I - Oh!” he exclaimed, checking his pack. He cried when finally he pulled out a folded piece of paper from its depths. He spread it open in the middle of the table and everyone moved closer to take a peek. “Remember that first night I dragged you away to the castle, Anthony? I showed you the prophecies that Agnes woman gave me. There was that first line, the one I usually skip, I wondered whether you could make sense of it now.” He tapped the text.

“Never did liked reading about the blood,” Crowley hissed.

“So, we have Light and Dark,” Newt muttered. “And from what happened last night, we’re not really short on blood,” he gagged at his own words. “I mean,” he sadi, soldiering on. “You know, if it’s going to be an ingredient or something like, a few drops are easy to come by.”

Aziraphale was silently mulling over the written notes and Crowley could almost hear the gears turning in her head. Before he could ask, another knocking came from the door. One of the guards stood outside looking as unkempt as the Duke and the General.

“What tidings?” Raphael called out as they approached the table.

“None, my lord,” he sighed, defeat on his face.

General Furrow growled. “Then why bother coming here at all?” The guard didn’t take offence at the brusque manner his news was received. His eyes had caught the heavily treated Aziraphale.

“We’ve got people stationed at the border just in case. I’ll have another report by this evening,” the man said, giving a curt nod to the assembly and slipped out the shop.

“Someone owes us a story,” Madame Tracey called out, eyes still on the recently closed door. Raphael sighed.

“We didn’t really want to add to the distress but maybe it would be best to tell you,” he rubbed at his eyes. “When we got back last night, the castle was in disarray.”

“A prisoner escaped,” the General continued. “Horses were stolen and last they’ve been seen was a good few miles away from the mountain pass. So everyone in this side of the Ridge is safe,” he added quickly at the others’ looks of mortification. “And we’ve combed trough the woods, so the children are safe,” he assured Aziraphale and Deirdre. “We sent out a party to follow their trail, hopefully they would find them by tomorrow.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but who was the prisoner?” Crowley sat up stiffly, dreading the answer. The snake slid off his lap anticipating more movement.

“Sandalphon,” Raphael answered weakly.

“How?” Anathema asked.

A pause.

“Lucas,” General Furrow responded apologetically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a month, I know. A LOT of things happened so far. But this chapter was already a third of the way written and I felt guilty about keeping it at arms length. It's just that when I reread the last chapter, some of the words dealt me a heavy blow. The whole 'life imitating art' thing is scary. But, if I can't have a happy ending. I would at least make sure this story does.
> 
> I'd say there are four to five chapters left in this. I might even reach 100k words!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :D


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